


So I Became Him

by Kiadi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Dark, Developing Friendships, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fade Dreams, Family, Family Drama, Friendship, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Mages, Mages and Templars, Male Friendship, Murder, Origin Story, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, The Fade, Tragedy, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5581654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiadi/pseuds/Kiadi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A broken body, bloody, banged on the stone cell, guts gripping in the dark dank, a captured apostate. They threw him into the dungeon in the Spire at Val Royeaux. They forgot about him. He starved to death. I came through to help... and I couldn't. So I became him...Cole."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“It is dangerous when too many men in the same armor think they're right."  
\- Cole, DA:I

 

It was so dark.

Even with all the time he'd had for his eyes to adjust, Cole could only see vague outlines and shapes. If it wasn't for a dim light source somewhere far down the hall of the prison cells, he would be in pitch blackness.

He felt a sharp pain at his feet, and he kicked out at the rats biting his ankles. He could barely see their tiny shapes scattering away, but they always came right back to bite again. Trying to get the vermin to leave him alone was a losing battle.

He slowly stood up, his entire body aching, most especially his empty stomach. He wasn't sure how long he'd been here, but it had been far too long since he'd had a bite to eat. A tiny trickle of foul tasting water from the side wall that leaked from a mysterious source kept him from drying out, for now. This left the rats and lack of food as his biggest concerns.

He slowly walked to the front of his cell, putting a hand out in front of him till it hit the thick, wooden door. He tried to look through the tiny, barred window of his cell door, were the light-source came from, but he still couldn't detect its origin. He contemplated calling out to someone, but fear of his captors - the templars - kept him silent, even now.

He shuddered at the thought of the templars. He had been warned they were coming for him, a betrayal that let them know an illegal mage was living on an old farmstead, and he was forced to flee from his home. He had only meager supplies, loaded in an old blanket, but it kept him going through the night and into morning, before he stumbled upon a river in the middle of a secluded forest. He dropped his “sack” on the ground, leaning down to drink greedily from the clear water. Once he'd had his fill, he removed his tunic from his thin, boyish frame and tried to wash out the caked blood in the water.

He'd been crying, but his tears had long since dried, leaving only dirty smudges, and a numb tightness on his hallow cheeks. His blond hair clung to his face and partially covered his eyes, though he never seemed to notice. He felt detached now, as he washed his clothing, vainly trying to clean away the guilt and horror of his past. He made a conscious effort to forget where the blood came from and why it was there. He just wanted it all to go away.

As hard as he tried, though, he couldn't get the stains out. He had always been poor, and this was the only tunic he owned, as evidenced by the patching and re-patching. He couldn't bear to wear it until he got rid of this cursed blood.

He hated magic, and he didn't want to use it, but he didn't have much choice. His mother had taught him a few spells before she died, including one she frequently used when his father wasn't looking.

He lifted his hand, channeling just a little bit of energy through his body. He rarely evoked his curse, and it felt incredibly strange, even frightening, but he tried his best to focus. Swiping his hand over the wet tunic, he willed the blood stains to disappear. The magic worked, and although the other stains remained, the blood vanished. He breathed a sigh of relief as he slipped it back over his head.

“Yep, that must be him.”

The sudden voice startled him to his feet and he spun around. Stepping out from the trees was what must have been a templar, even though this was the first he'd ever seen. He wore a polished breastplate, emblazoned with the symbol of a flaming sword. He was not wearing his helmet, so Cole could see his bearded face clearly. His gaze reminded the young man of a bored and hungry cat who just found easy prey.

The templar took another step towards him and Cole stepped back, his arms raised defensively. This was his worst fear come true; the templars had found him. He'd only heard stories of the things they did to apostates--rogue mages, like him--and he didn't want to find out if they were true.

His eyes darted all around him, looking for escape, and it was then that he saw another templar, quietly stepping in to flank him from the other end of the river. For men in full armor, they were surprisingly stealthy. With templars on both sides, and a river behind him, he could see only one possible path to freedom.

The first templar sighed in annoyance as he watched the wheels turn in the young man's head. He was undoubtedly a veteran mage-hunter and he knew what was coming, “Don't do it, mage.”

Cole bolted, away from the river, running as fast as his legs could carry him into the safety of the forest. He leaped over logs, nimbly dodged around trees and ran for his life.

It was a wasted effort. Cole was blindsided by a blow to his head out of nowhere, and he fell to the ground with a thud. His clasped his throbbing head, curling into a ball as he whimpered. Apparently, there was a third templar. He had been trapped on all sides.

“He's a speedy little shit, I'll give him that,” he heard the first templar say as he came through the trees. A rough hand grabbed his arm, forcing him to stand up. Dazed, but still desperate to escape, the mage made one last attempt to draw magic. He didn't care what kind of spell came from it, he just wanted to do something.

It was the last thing he remembered before a brief explosion of pain turned his world black.

*****

A nip at his fingers woke him from his daydream and he snatched his hand from the floor. The rats were back. He swatted at the hidden critters, but hit nothing. It was too dark to see them, and he could only hear them scurry about, letting out the occasional squeak.

He reached behind his head, remembering where the templars struck him. He could still feel the caked blood, but, thankfully no pain. His mother had taught him a simple healing spell, and it did wonders for his headache. He contemplated using his cleansing spell on his hair, but he decided against it. He didn't see the point.

The cell wasn't just dark, but also painfully quiet. Only the noise from the rats, and the occasional banging echoes from somewhere far away permeated the still air. He stood up again, walking over to the back portion of the cell, reaching his hand out to feel for obstacles. As far as he could tell from his blind searching, the room's only distinguishing features were a bucket in the far corner and the door. With the exception of the tiny, barred window on the cell door, there was nothing here to give him a glimpse outside. It was all just filthy, sometimes wet, stone walls; not even a cot to give him some sanctuary against the rats.

There were no blankets or bedding, leaving him shivering from the cold, stale air. He leaned back against the heavy wood door, trying to ignore the stench of filth, sweat, and death all around him. In addition to the pain in his empty belly, he became aware of his aching loneliness. Save the templars, who weren't much for conversation, he hadn't spoken to anyone since he'd left home. The need for someone to talk to was even stronger than his need for sustenance, but all he had were the rats, and even they wouldn't stick around long enough for a greeting.

Cole closed his eyes, trying his best to relax. More than anything, now, he just wanted to sleep, to temporarily escape from his cell into the world of dreams. He imagined the cold would make it difficult, but his body was eager for the rest.

There was nothing else he could do here.

*****

The Fade, the world of dreams, is an ever-changing, ever-fluctuating realm. All the people of Thedas, with the exception of dwarves and Tranquil, visit this realm every time they lay their heads to sleep. Most have little control there, allowing the spirits to peer into their memories and form a strange and emotional world based around it; to create their dreams.

Cole, however, was a mage, and he wandered the Fade aware.

It was both a gift and a curse. A mage could control and manipulate the Fade, even in the real world, bringing things into existence through sheer will. Their manipulation of the Fade also meant they were far more likely to attract the denizens of the Fade, spirits...and demons.

Cole wandered the ever changing world. Normally, he'd come here to find shapes and scenes from his memories forming, but right now it was just an empty, ethereal world. His mind created a rocky ground beneath his feet, but it was vast and empty, with only a few jagged outcroppings and floating islands. The place had a strange, greenish tint to it, and everything blurred around him, further reminding him that he wasn't in presently in the waking world.

The mage had never had any real magical training, but he knew he needed to be wary of demons. According to the Chantry priests, demons were jealous of mortals, and had a strong desire to see the mortal world, to experience the realm beyond the Fade for themselves. They could only do so by possessing a body, living or dead, and the connection mages had to the Fade made them an easy target for possession. The destruction and death a possessed mage, an abomination, caused was the main reason templars hunted them.

Thankfully, not all spirits were so aggressive.

“Hello.”

The mage turned around, and was greeted by an obvious inhabitant of the Fade. The figure before him was only vaguely humanoid, translucent, and had a soft greenish glow. Its “face,” if you could call it that, consisted of two small glowing white orbs for “eyes,” a vague impression of a nose, and a small mouth, which was smiling gently at him.

“Hello?” The mage was hesitant and wary, but did not attack. He knew demons could be deceivers, but he sensed nothing but kindness and comfort emanating from this creature. If it wasn't for his desperate need for both right now, he would have fled.

The spirit continued to stare at him in a curious but friendly manner. When it spoke again, in a voice neither male nor female, it was in a rapid but soft whisper, “Happy times, before the spark hit the trees. Fleeing from the Blight and the hunters. The spirit draws the hare away as the witch hides her relic. More blood added to the already bloody knife. Frightened, fretting, foreboding, but cannot flee her killer.”

“What?” The mage asked, now confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Stench of rotting grain and a soldier's promise. Answers buried like a dagger in silk. They are all gone. Am I alone? Struck down, cast down into the darkness, deserted, disregarded and dismissed. They have forgotten you, Cole.”

“I don't need you, demon.” Cole spat, but with far less confidence than he normally had when dealing with creatures of the Fade.

“Yes, you do,” The spirit countered, zero malice evident in its disembodied voice. “I find those who hurt and I heal them. I am Compassion, and I am here to help.”

“Begone, I won't let you posses me!” he wished he could say it with greater conviction, as he'd done in the past. If there was one thing he'd always been good at, it was telling demons to piss off. Deep down, however, he didn't want it to leave, and the “demon” knew this, too.

“I'm not here to take your body, I'm here to take your pain. I'm here to help.” The spirit looked around the Fade quizzically, “Why are you not shaping the dream? Why is it empty?”

“Maybe I like it this way.”

The spirit looked back at Cole in confusion, “No, this is not what you want, it's what you are. Alone, abandoned, cast aside, you form a forsaken field. Nothing but you within.”

Cole opened his mouth to answer, but soon closed it again without saying a word.

The spirit smiled back at him, filling him again with a sensation of safety and comfort, “Shall I try?”

Cole stared at the spirit, swallowing nervously, but nodded, “Go ahead.”

The spirit turned its gaze to the side, and Cole followed it, looking out at the expanse of the Fade again. Despite the bleakness of this place, he noticed for the first time small balls of light, wisps, flitting about playfully. There were slightly larger spirits as well, wraiths perhaps, similar in appearance, but not as pronounced as Compassion. It was clear who the dominant spirit in this part of the Fade was.

The presence of the compassion spirit seemed to be changing the realm as he watched, from a place of bleak emptiness to an ethereal garden. Small transparent flowers that could barely retain a set shape sprouted from the rocky ground. Trees with multicolored leaves and braided branches grew before his eyes. A river with a waterfall that flowed up instead of down flowed into the sky. It was strange, yet somehow comforting.

“Does this help?” he heard the spirit say behind him.

He couldn't suppress his smile, “It's...better. Weird, but better.”

“You can do it, too,” Compassion gestured with an ethereal hand towards the scenery. “You are aware. Try.”

Cole hesitated for only a moment. Why not? He looked around, seeking an empty spot, and attempted to will something into existence. Whatever he used to shape the Fade, he must have used too much. Despite focusing on the single, empty spot, the entire landscape changed. The mystical garden slowly changed into a simple farm house and field, humble but beautiful in its own way. The fields had recently been planted, and there were already small, green buds emerging from the fertile soul. A line full of recently-washed sheets were hung out to dry, a tiny kitten played on the porch, and a healthy mule grazed contentedly in the fields.

The house itself was an unpainted two-bedroom homestead with a shingled roof. It wasn't new, but it was well repaired and comfortable.

The spirit gazed around, admiring the mage's handiwork. “Is this your home?”

“It was, a long time ago,” Cole gazed longingly around him.

The spirit nodded, content, as though it somehow knew more than Cole was letting on, “This is a good start. We can bring the old hurts here.”

The mage frowned, still gazing longingly at his childhood home. “I prefer to remember the good things that happened here.”

“The old hurts cannot heal if they are not set free.”

Cole spun on the spirit, his eyes flashing with anger, “If all you are interested in is my pain, then maybe you really are a demon after all.”

The spirit looked back at the mage, unfazed. “I do not feed on the pain like Despair, or spur the fear as Terror. I free you from the hurt so it doesn't.”

“I've never even heard of a spirit of Compassion!”

The spirit cocked its head curiously, “How many spirits do you know?”

Compassion had him there, and he looked away without saying anything. Considering the warnings the Chantry priests drilled into him, he couldn't help but wonder why he was still interacting with this spirit.

Even as he thought it, he knew the answer. He remembered the Chantry priests telling him one thing, but his mother, a Chasind shaman, had a different take on spirits. Her people actually revered them, and she tried to teach him to do so as well. He never fully bought into the all-spirits-are-evil-demons rhetoric, nor the idea that spirits were worthy of reverence, but even without his crippling loneliness, he felt he owed it to his mother's memory to hear the spirit out.

He walked over to the house, climbing the steps to the simple wooden door. His father built this house, soon after he and his mother chose to settle down; soon after she had learned she was with child. He entered the house and found it clean and pristine, with a simple table and chair set up in the corner, right next to the door that lead to the cellar. Ahead and to the right was a row of cupboards surrounding a wood stove, and a counter with a filled water basin; the kitchen area. On the right was another door that lead to a single bedroom they all shared.

The only thing strange about this place was that it was empty. There was no one here but Cole and...

The mage couldn't help but yelp in shock as Compassion entered the home by passing through the kitchen wall as though it wasn't even there. “Where is your family?” it asked him, innocently.

“Can you not do that?” Cole gasped, clutching his chest as his breathing got back to normal. “You could have used the door, you know.”

“Why?”

“Because going through walls is weird! And I don't know where my family is.”

“You don't wish to make them real here?”

Cole thought about it for a moment. It's true, this was the Fade, a dream. He could just make them appear, relive the happier moments of his childhood as he wished. But...

“They're gone. I don't want to make them 'real.'”

“Then I will do it for you.”

Compassion stepped back from the kitchen, and waved its hand. A humanoid form shimmered before them, the green glow of the Fade forming the shape of a thin woman. She appeared to be in her mid to early 30s, with dark-brown hair, put up in a curly ponytail that reminded Cole of a frizzy flower. She wore a conservative brown dress with an apron, typical of the farmers in Ferelden, but the abstract tribal tattoos decorating her face betrayed her Wilder heritage.

Mama? Cole thought it to himself, his mouth open in surprise. He loved his mother, and the view of her only brought him a yearning ache.

“Yes,” the spirit answered the question he never asked. Compassion turned towards the table and waved its hand again. Another, much smaller figure began to take shape underneath it, eventually forming into a toddler. The baby appeared to be just old enough to start walking, with wispy blonde hair, an ordinary, brown baby dress and wool diaper. The little girl, which Cole immediately recognized as his sister, was playing with polished wooden horses, thumping them on the floor while making adorable “clop clop” and neighing sounds--when she wasn't trying to chew on them.

Cole spoke with hoarse emotion, in barely a whisper, “What are you doing, spirit?”

Compassion didn't answer. Instead it stepped towards the cellar door, gesturing past it. A cacophony of noise suddenly sprang up from inside the cellar, the sound of crashing wood, thumping, shouting, and laughter.

The mage instantly knew what was going on in that cellar and he cracked a smile. The spirit, who moved back to float next to him, had picked a happy memory after all. It was such a relief.

“You were all happy,” the spirit said again.

“Yes,” he answered. “This time in my life was good.”

The cellar door suddenly sprang open, and what was clearly a very young Cole--probably no more than eight or nine--leapt out of the cellar, carrying a small tree branch and giggling. He leaped out of the cellar, almost running into his mother. Ignoring her protests, he ran to the front door to swing it open. He didn't step outside, however, instead turning to face his “adversary,” who was just emerging from the cellar as well.

A very large, burly man burst through the door, carrying a stick similar to the boy's. His ash-blond hair was balding in the front, but still long enough to be pulled back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. His square jaw was freshly shaven, and he was wearing simple leggings and a smallshirt.

The grown man, grinning like a child, pointed his “sword” at the boy and addressed him in a terrible Orlesian accent. “Orlais zhil take back zeh Empire. You canna stop us!”

Cole pointed his own “sword” at the man and would have responded triumphantly if he could have stopped laughing. “I am the great Ser Loghain, hero of Ferelden, and we will be freee.”

The grown man lunged at the younger Cole, swatting playfully at his “sword,” as Cole backed out of the door, the two of them trading sportive swings at each other.

The infant on the floor began crying, startled by the sudden excitement. Her mother sighed in annoyance, cursing the men of her household under her breath as she reached under the table to pick up her daughter, trying her best to soothe her.

It was a bitter-sweet memory, and Cole smiled sadly as he gazed at his mother and sister. His emotional state didn't escape the notice of the spirit next to him. “You miss them.”

It was not a question, but Cole nodded in response. “They're all gone now.”

“Lonely, lost, and longing.”

“Yes.”

The spirit moved over to the door, seemingly ready to pass right on through it, but it hesitating. It stole a quick glance at Cole, then turned back to the door, and placed its disembodied hand on the handle. In a markedly deliberate motion, the spirit pushed the latch down, waited for the clicking sound, then pushed the door wide open. It looked back at Cole again, smiling almost boastfully. The young man chuckled in approval, delighting the spirit.

They both stepped outside, closing the door behind them, and watched as father and son played sword fighting.

“You loved your father.” It was a statement, not a question, and Cole responded with a cold grimace.

“I wanted to be a warrior, like he was.”

“He was once a soldier. Did you want to be a soldier, too?”

Cole glanced curiously at the spirit. It proved, once again, that it knew more than it was letting on. “Nah, I wanted to be a hero, like King Maric or Logh...well, maybe not Loghain anymore.”

The spirit nodded, “He liked to tell tales.”

“I loved hearing them. I often pretended to be a mighty warrior, or a spirited rogue, and my father encouraged me. He was proud of my passion.” Cole suddenly turned sober, “Until...”

His sentiment was interrupted by a loud crackle, like a thunderous lightning strike, that knocked the little boy onto the ground, his stick flying out of his hands. A patch of trees in nearby burst into flames.

All laughter stopped, replaced instead with the sound of roaring flames and a crying baby. The boy and his father could only stare, stunned, at the flaming trees, even as the flames quickly began to spread.

A lump appeared in the older Cole's throat as he watched. This was no longer a happy memory.

“What happened out here?” His mother stepped out of the house, still carrying the crying toddler. She rushed over to where the burly man stood, looking out over the flames.

Cole's mother seemed to be the only one to keep her head. She quickly handed the child to her father and stepped towards the flames. She lifted her hands into the air, drawing power from around her and directing it towards the blaze. A mist of water appeared above and around it, dousing it within minutes, leaving a few blackened, smoldering trees behind.

The baby finally stopped crying. Fascinated by the use of magic, she stared in wonder. She was the only one who seemed to approve, however, as the boy looked terrified, and the father, holding his daughter in one hand and the stick-sword in the other, looked furious.

Cole's mother turned around, her eyes immediately setting on her husband. A sense of fear flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with resolve. “I had to do it. I had to use magic. The flames would have eventually reached the fields, and you know it!”

He narrowed his eyes at his wife, but said nothing. Instead he turned his frightening gaze towards the boy next to him.

She gazed down at the boy as well, but her expression was of fearful concern. “Cole? Son? Did...did you do that?”

The boy-Cole sat up, looking down at his hands in shock and horror. He clasped them together, hugging them to himself, and looked up at his mother, lip quivering.

His father suddenly threw the stick he was holding in front of the boy, who flinched as it landed at his feet. “Looks like you won't be a warrior after all, boy.” He then stormed into the house, slamming the door shut behind him, just as the baby cried out for her Mama.

The young Cole hung his head, bringing his knees closer to his chest. His mother walked over to him, kneeling so she could put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Cole, it's alright. I'm here, you're not alone.”

He didn't respond. He seemed to be trying as hard as he could to fight back tears, and failing.

“Cole,” there was nothing but love and compassion in her voice. “Be proud. You're a shaman, like me. The Chasind hold us in high esteem. I can teach you how...”

“I don't wanna be a shaman,” boy-Cole finally sobbed out. “Papa told me all about magic. I hate magic.”

She drew her child closer and held him as he sobbed into her shoulder. There was a fresh look of pain on her face, and not just for her terrified son.

“The words hurt her,” the spirit said as he watched.

Cole frowned, “I know.”

“She was happy for herself. She was happy you were like her. She didn't like being an only.”

The mage turned away from the spirit, pursing his lips.

Compassion sensed Cole's sudden guilt, and it panicked. “Oh, I said the wrong thing. Wrong, wrong, wrong,” it quickly raised a disembodied hand to Cole's head. “Forget!”

The last few seconds abruptly vanished from Cole's mind, and he glanced up again, slightly confused.

Compassion tried again, “It's not your fault. You can't stop your father from being him, just as you can't stop you from being you.”

Cole took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “I just don't understand how Father could love Mama and still hate her magic! It doesn't make sense.”

“Regretting, resenting, running. I could have been a hero if not for her. I wouldn't have to hide if not for her.”

“Is that what my father was thinking?”

“He was wrong to think that. It wasn't her fault the templars hunted her.”

“It wasn't his fault, either,” Cole countered.

“No, she could not choose, but he could. He knew what it meant, but believed he could control it, a fist gripping water. Smother, supervise, subdue, but it would not submit. It made him angry. He saw only his pain, his helplessness, and not your mother's.” He turned to fully face Cole. “Or yours.”

Cole shook his head, “He may have chosen my mother knowing what she was, but he didn't choose me.”

“He chose you when he chose her.” There was an intensity in the way the spirit spoke, and Cole found himself looking into the strange, glowing orbs it had for eyes. “He chose to regret. He chose to let those choices become anger and hate. He made his choices, not you. You didn't choose this. He did.”

Cole turned away from those eyes, staring at the ground. There was still pain, but the words made him feel a little lighter, like a great burden had been lifted from him. It was exactly what Cole needed to hear at that moment.

*****

Cole paced back and forth in his cell, wringing his hands. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal. His stomach was tight, screaming for food, but he had none to give it. At least his constant movements kept the rats away.

Though raw rat was starting to sound tasty at this point.

He wandered over to his cell door again. He'd lost count of how many times he'd tried looking through the window, and how many times he'd been disappointed at what he did, or did not, see. He continued his pacing again, from the door to the back of the cell. Back and forth, back and forth.

He wanted to sleep. The Fade gave him someone to talk to, and allowed him to forget the pangs in his stomach for awhile. He wasn't in a dream, though. He was wide awake. Back and forth, back and forth.

He'd made one, soft attempt at calling for help. Fear of the templars kept him from calling out with more than just a normal voice or a stage whisper, but he made a tentative attempt. His own echoes in the stone halls were his only answer.

He resisted, but his mind wandered back to the templars that captured him. He remembered waking up, his body jostling to the movements of a horse. He was draped over it like a prized boar, tied down and blindfolded. His head hurt where the templar had struck him, and his body ached from his unnatural position. He started to squirm, to try and get more comfortable, until he realized with horror that he could feel the body heat and steel armor of its rider right next to him.

There were other horses around him too, but he couldn't tell how many. None of them were speaking, and their silence was more terrifying than anything.

“W...where are you taking me?” He regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth, cringing at the sound of his own voice. His captors remained silent. They didn't even seem to flinch

“Are you going to kill me?”

He heard the templar he was riding with draw his sword, and he cried out in terror before another blow to his head knocked him out cold.

When he woke again, he was no longer on the horse but lying on the cold ground. It was night, and he heard a crackling fire nearby, but he wasn't close enough to feel its warmth. He reflexively shivered in the cold, but tried his best not to move and alert the templars to his consciousness.

He laid there for what seemed like ages, but still heard nothing. He dared to move again, testing his bonds to see if escape was a possibility. They had him trussed up tight, with ropes tying his elbows and wrists behind his back, and ropes tying his feet as well. Unless he found some way to remove them, he wasn't going anywhere.

He rested his cheek on the cold ground and he shivered again. He tried to curl up for warmth, but the task proved difficult with his bindings. Somehow, he knew he was going to die. The templars were going to kill him. No wonder his family took such pains to protect him and his mother.

Perhaps it was fitting he was here, then, since he no longer had a family to protect him. Perhaps this was his due punishment for...

Cole stopped pacing, shaking his head as though doing so would banish the memories. He didn't want to think about the templars anymore. They threw him in here, locked him up, and he never wanted to see them again. Part of him hoped that they really did forget him.

Though he still clung to the hope that someone would find him. Anyone but the templars. He didn't want to die here.


	2. Chapter 2

“So, Kid, why human?”  
"It had to be him. But harmless. The him he wanted that wouldn't hurt.”  
\- Party Banter in DA:I

 

The Fifth Blight hit Ferelden a few months after Cole discovered his magic. Word quickly spread of Teyrn Loghain's betrayal at Ostagar, a betrayal that caused the death of King Cailan.

It was the Blight that forced Cole's family to flee their beloved farm and home as the Blight forces made their way to Denerim. They fled before most families, due in large to the warnings coming on the word of templars.

With two apostates in the family, they couldn't stay in any large settlements. They eventually found an old, dying, farming community that had fallen on hard times, and took up living in an abandoned, run-down shack.

It soon became evident why the farm was abandoned. The soil was overworked, almost like dry clay, and hardly anything grew there. They were forced to sell many of their most prized possessions, including their trusted mule, just to get by.

All of this took a serious toll on the family, but the head of the household seemed to take it especially hard. Not all of the money they had went towards food and goods for the family; far too much of it went to fuel Papa's drinking. Too often they'd send him into town to buy necessities, and he'd instead come back with several bottles of mead, ale, and beer. Neither Cole nor his mother dared question him, for they knew that a cruel beating and even crueler words awaited them if they did.

In the Fade, the old farmhouse and forest was gone, replaced with the lonely shack and dry farmland, and even more dry earth for miles around. Some things looked the same, such as the clothesline up front and the newly attached cellar his father built. Although sometimes used to store the harvest, it was mostly used to store his extra drink. Because a cellar for his liquors was far more important than an extra room for the family...

Cole hadn't set this up, which meant the spirit did. It was preparing him for another painful memory. That was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now.

“I know it hurts to see, but it will help.”

Cole sighed and turned towards the spirit. Compassion still appeared as a disembodied form, although it seemed to have more distinguishable features this time, like it was trying to look just a little more human, without taking an actual human form.

“Why don't you take the form of a person?” Cole asked him, both out of curiosity and in hopes of distracting from the inevitable.

The spirit turned somber, looking at the ground uncomfortably. “I couldn't find a human in your head that didn't hold your hurt.”

“None?” Cole was dubious. “Not my mom, or my sister, or some of my old friends?”

“Their memory hurts you.”

Cole was about to ask why, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized the spirit was right. He had happy thoughts of them, but they were gone now, making flashbacks of them bitter-sweet, at best.

“Can you take the shape of a stranger?” he offered helpfully. “Just some random person, maybe.”

“I don't know any,” Compassion said pitifully.

“You must have met other people besides me.”

“Looking is not easy,” the spirit was only slightly flustered. “People have a perplexing and puzzling pattern. I can't look like someone if I forget.”

“I just...I really wish you didn't look so...so...” A pained expression crossed the spirit's face and Cole sighed, looking away in shame. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean...” Cole went quiet. This was not going the way he thought it would.

“I'm trying,” the spirit said sadly.

“I know, and I am grateful, really.” A strange thought hit the mage. “What about me? Can you make yourself look like me?”

Despite its vague features, the spirit looked skeptical. “You don't like you, either. That's why I'm trying to help.”

“What? Of course I like myself. What are you talking about?”

“I am corrupted, cursed, cracked, he hates me, hurts me. He wanted me drowning, depressed, dead, they're all dead because of me. I should be punished, pointless prayers, mocked by the Maker. All because I have magic.”

The spirit was being weird again, but Cole tried his best to stay focused, “I...I don't hate me, spirit, I just hate my...” he huffed, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing, “can you make me look the way I'd look if I wasn't a mage?”

This confused the spirit. “Why? You'd...still look like you.”

“Yeah, but that's the part of me I don't like and don't want. Remove my magic and I'm fine!”

The spirit continued to look at him perplexed. “I don't understand.”

“Like you said, if I wasn't a mage my father wouldn't have hated me, and the templars wouldn't have locked me up.”

“But you are a mage.”

“I shouldn't have to be.”

“Mage or no, you would... look the same.”

“Humor me, Compassion.”

The spirit was made even more confused. “So, a jester instead of a mage?”

“Huh? No!” Cole threw his hands up in defeat, “Never mind, it was a stupid idea anyway.”

He looked away, shaking his head at his own foolishness. Now that he thought about it, who in their right mind would want to take the shape of a scrawny boy like him anyway? A dirt-poor farm boy, cursed with magic, wasn't the kind of person anyone would want to embody.

“Like this?”

The voice was noticeably different, and Cole turned around to find himself staring at...himself. He couldn't help but gawk. Same blond hair, same thin face, lanky body, and patched up leathers. The spirit now stared back at him, nervously looking for approval, an expression that only seemed exaggerated with Cole's wide, blue eyes.

Cole looked the spirit up and down before making a face. “Do I really look like that?”

“Is it wrong?” The voice was now noticeably male, though it seemed higher pitched than Cole thought. Not that he had any idea how he sounded to other people, or looked either.

His countenance relaxed as he gazed at the spirit. “No, it's probably right.”

The spirit's tension eased, and a slight smile came to his face. “Is this better?”

Despite making the suggestion, Cole expected the image of himself staring back at him would be unsettling and awkward. That wasn't the case at all, however. He was no longer looking at a creepy, disembodied spirit, but a human being; a friend, and it made all the difference.

“Yes, thank you.”

Compassion smiled big, the kind of smile Cole couldn't remember having for the longest time. It actually looked strange seeing himself so happy...and innocent.

The door to the farmhouse suddenly opened, drawing Cole's attention, and he watched as his mother, his boy-self, and his sister emerged from the tiny shack. He was now a few years older, on the cusp of puberty, and his sister was now a little girl. They were all carrying wooden buckets, two each for Cole and his mother, and a small wooden cup for his sister.

Cole recognized this daily chore; they were off to get water from the river for the day. Even though there was a well on the farm, it had long since dried up, and the river was their only source.

“You call her Bunny,” the spirit spoke up. He was staring at the little girl.

Cole allowed himself a quick laugh, “Yes, silly I know. Mama said I struggled to say her name when I was young, and I've called her that ever since. Besides, just look at her.”

He pointed to his sister, who was hopping around behind her family, waving the cup in the air, her long pig-tails bouncing up and down like rabbit ears. She never seemed to run out of energy.

“You took her name and made it a new name. Bonnie to Bunny, Bunny from Bonnie.”

Cole smiled warmly, watching her swing her arms, and the cup, in all directions. He shook his head in amusement. “She never could keep any water in that cup.”

They reached the middle of the field, and his mother stopped unexpectedly, placing the buckets on the ground. Young Cole only took a few steps ahead before stopping to look at her curiously. Bunny almost collided with her mother's skirt, but she caught herself just in time.

Mama turned towards Bunny, smiling sweetly. She knelt down, her hands now cupped in front of her as though holding something. When she opened them, a small, multi-colored bird peaked it's head out and chirped.

Bunny squealed in delight and reached out to touch it. The bird instantly took to the air, flying to the outer part of the field.

“Oh no!” The little girl cried as she watched it. “It's getting away!”

“Go catch it, Bonnie.” Bunny didn't hesitate and she ran across the field after the colorful bird.

“Why did you do that? She might get hurt,” Cole said as he watched his sister charge across the field.

“The bird is a spirit, Cole,” his mother responded. “It will watch over her for me until I'm done. Please help me.”

Cole's mother picked up a stick and began digging into the ground. He put down his own buckets and grabbed a stick. Together they dug a small, shallow hole in the middle of the field, about the size of a small animal.

Satisfied that it was big enough, she reached behind her to one of the buckets and pulled from it an ornate dagger. It was sheathed inside an embroidered leather scabbard, the hilt made of brass expertly crafted into the shape of a dragon. She pulled the dagger from its sheath, gazing lovingly at its serrated blade, before putting it back inside and pulling a small, silk handkerchief from her apron.

“Mama?” Cole couldn't help but be a little nervous. He'd never seen this dagger before, and didn't know his mother had one.

“It was a gift from my tribe,” she said as she wrapped it tightly and reverently in the cloth, “when I fulfilled my Rite of Passage and became a woman. It's the only thing I kept when I left them.” She turned her gaze on her son, her eyes flashing in determination and anger. “I will not let your father sell it for his drink.”

She placed the wrapped dagger in the freshly-dug earth, and immediately began covering it with dirt. Cole helped, heaping more and more dirt into the hole until it was completely covered. She patted it down for good measure, then stood up and brushed the dirt from her dress.

“Don't tell your father or your sister, Cole. Promise me!”

“I promise,” the boy said as he also stood up.

With the task done, she looked out over the field to where her daughter was still chasing the bird. It was now coming back towards them, and she held her hands out, letting the bird gently land.

Bunny came running up, out of breath and gazing happily at the bird.

Her mother smiled, bringing the bird closer to her. She inhaled and blew at the bird, and it vanished in a puff of evaporating feathers.

Bunny gasped in horror at first, until she realized, “MAGIC!”

“Shh,” her mother put a finger to her mouth. “Don't tell your father. It's our little secret.”

The little girl nodded enthusiastically.

They all picked up their buckets and cup and began walking towards the river, their forms fading to nothing as the scene ended.

It didn't seem like either a happy or tragic memory, which left Cole confused, “Why did you show me that?”

Compassion looked at the ground, concentrating on something Cole couldn't see. “It's tangled in the memory of a memory. I...I'm trying to see it but it is buried beneath. I cannot bring it to bare.”

“A memory I've forgotten?” Cole looked at him skeptically.

The spirit looked at him, and Cole could practically feel him burrowing into his mind, trying to dig up something that wouldn't come out. “Not forgotten; hidden. People hide the hurt, make it heavy in a hole, sliding, sinking, slipping so it can't be seen. The dagger is not the only thing buried.”

Cole had never heard of such a thing. Burying memories?

“I...had that dagger when the templars took me,” he remembered now. He remembered it being strapped to his belt as he was washing his tunic. Washing the blood from his tunic.

He couldn't remember now where the blood came from, only that he was desperate enough to use magic to be rid of it. He tried to remember...

“Yes,” the spirit said, with excited concern, “they are connected.”

Cole closed his eyes and tried to remember. He remembered he had been crying, tears of anguish and guilt...a lot of it. He tried harder, but the memory he searched for came with the promise of agony and torment. It easily rebuffed his attempts to retrieve it.

“And it's gone,” Compassion couldn't hide his disappointment.

“Sorry.” Cole said it, knowing it was only half-true. After what he felt, he now preferred the memory stay buried.

The spirit nodded, looking directly at Cole, “There is another memory. Like her dagger, it is bound with the buried, and must be brought out.” The spirit stared deep into his eyes, taking on a somber, serious tone. “This one will hurt,” he emphasized the last word, warning Cole of what was to come, “but I won't be able to heal the hurt till the hidden hole is hollow.”

A loud, and very familiar, crackling boom brought the two of them back to the scene before them. It was an all-too familiar scene, but worse. The entire side of the farmhouse was now burned. The laundry hanging on the line was smoldering calmly, licks of flames consuming the sheets and clothing. Part of the planted farm was also scorched, and boy-Cole was sitting prone on the ground, looking at the scene in horror.

“What was that? What happened?” His mother came running out of the house. She spotted the destruction, and her face went white. “Maker's breath. Not again.”

“I didn't mean to,” boy-Cole cried out, staring at the damage in horror.

His mother ignored him, quickly going to work putting out the flames with her own magic. The damage was far more extensive than usual, and it took quite awhile for her to put out all the flames. Still, the damage had been done; half their farm was scorched, several precious articles of clothing and bed sheets were beyond hope. The crackle of magical electricity could still be felt in the acrid air.

His mother didn't look at Cole, whispering in baleful horror under her breath, “By Andraste, he's going to be furious when he sees this.”

“I'm sorry,” the boy's words were hoarse from fear. “Please, don't tell him.”

“I don't have to tell him, it's clear as day what happened here.” She looked at her son, her expression a confused mesh of anger, fear, and sorrow, all for her beloved child. She set her jaw, letting her voice gain strength and authority, “How many more times are you going to let this happen before you let me teach you?”

The boy said nothing; he merely looked away in shame.

“Magical power is dangerous if you don't learn how to control it,” she continued, turning to face him fully. “This kind of destruction is what calls the templars on us. Is that what you want?”

“No,” he said pitifully.

“This is why your father hates magic so much.”

“I didn't ask for this!” Mentioning Papa touched a nerve with him, and he clenched his jaw in defiance.

“It doesn't matter!” Her own anger subdued his as she bore down on him. Frightened, he scurried backwards on his hands, not accustomed to seeing his mother so enraged. “You are like me, you have magic, whether you like it or not! You need to accept that and face the consequences or this,” she gestured towards the burnt fields, “will happen again!”

She marched over and grabbed his arm, forcing him to stand. “Inside now, Cole. We have a day or two before your father gets home, and you are going to learn some spells to help you control your powers. I won't take no for an answer this time.”

She forcibly led him by the arm to the shack, pushing him in front of her. He ran inside without protest, and she followed close behind him, slamming the door shut with a loud snap.

Compassion approached the house to join them, but stopped, when he realized Cole wasn't following. He looked back to see the young man looking over the destruction, his face pained and fearful.

“I know where this is going,” he said in a hushed whisper. “Please don't. I don't want to see this again.”

The very human expression on the spirit's face softened, and he turned back to Cole. “It's a splinter in your soul, festering, foul. It will not heal until it comes out.”

Cole shook his head slowly, “I can't...”

Compassion gave him a sympathetic smile. He slowly walked up to the frightened young man and took his hand. “It's okay,” he said in a soothing voice. “I'll be here.”

The spirit walked towards the shack, leading a nervous Cole behind him. It was the first time the spirit had touched him, and it felt...strange. Not quite like a human hand, more like a hand that hovered just slightly off his bare skin, a feeling of warmth and energy, but not quite physical contact. Despite this, it was still oddly comforting.

Compassion only released his hand when they entered the hovel, and Cole noted that the scene had changed again, indicating a passage of time. Boy-Cole and his mother sat on the floor together, his sister sitting on a chair, holding a crude, patchwork toy rabbit as she watched.

His mother picked up a small knife she held in her hand, and held out her arm. She raised the knife above her arm, preparing to cut.

Bunny gasped, “Are you teaching him blood magic?” Her response had no fear, just shock and wonder.

“No, Bonnie.” She cut the thick part of her arm in one swipe, wincing at the pain. “Cole is like me, he has an affinity for spirits. We don't enslave spirits or people with blood, like a Maleficar, we ask spirits for aid, and some of those spirits can heal wounds.”

Boy-Cole winced as he saw the blood, “You want me to summon a demon to heal you?”

“A spirit, not a demon,” she gently corrected him. The cut from her arm bled, streaming slowly down around her arm, where it threatened to drip onto the floor. The boy looked at the wound with revulsion, but raised his hands above the wound, preparing the spell he'd just learned.

“Don't be afraid. Feel the magic, let it come in, and politely ask the spirit to heal. It wants to help.”

A slight glow came to the boy's hands, and the wound slowly began to close up, knitting together until it vanished, leaving no trace it had ever been there. Even the blood was gone.

A proud mother smiled at her child. “See, was that so bad, Cole? Magic can help people. It's a gift, not a curse.” Boy-Cole didn't look convinced, but he seemed a little calmer. “Given more time, you'll learn how to better control your magic, and you can use it to help those around you. Always be wary, but don't be afraid.”

The older Cole was so enraptured by the scene before him, that he barely registered Compassion's gleeful admission. “This was when we first met.”

It took a minute for him to acknowledge what Compassion had just said, and when he did Cole spun and looked at the spirit in surprise. “What?”

“You called me and asked me to help her, heal her.” Compassion was clearly proud of himself.

“That...was you?”

“Yes.”

He stared at the spirit slack-jawed, “If you've been with me all these years, why didn't I see you before?”

“You didn't need to see me before.”

Loud, angry noises alerted everyone in the home to someone outside. “What the hell happened here!?”

More crashing noises, and everyone froze in terror. He was home.

The boy looked at his mother in horror, but she was prepared for this. “Cole, take your sister and hide,” she spoke in a hushed, but forceful whisper.

“But what about...”

“Go! Now!”

Cole hesitated, but only for a moment. He didn't have much time before his father came through that door, and he rushed over, grabbing his sister's hand. She climbed down from the chair and ran with him into the cellar.

Mama stood up, brushing the dust from her skirt and facing the door, her face stoic and difficult to read.

“She's afraid,” Compassion said in a whisper as he gazed at her.

The older Cole nodded, speaking in the same whisper, “I bet.”

The door swung open with a loud bang, but she didn't flinch. Papa staggered inside, enraged and clearly drunk.

The years had not been kind to the man. His hair was nearly gone, leaving him with only a slight sign of stubble from ear to ear, front and back. He wore only simple leggings and a small shirt, both filthy and smelling of stale sweat and vomit. His eyes and face had sunken in over the years, and he'd developed a paunch, but he was still as large and intimidating as ever. Maybe more so.

“Where is he?”

The murderous tone of his voice sent a chill down the real Cole's spine, and he felt Compassion place a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“I sent him and Bonnie out to get more seeds from the forest,” she lied. “They won't be back until nightfall.”

“Seeds!?” It didn't work. “You expect me to believe you sent them out for seeds this time of year?”

“We can still save the farm.”

“Bullshit! That boy ruined us!” He frantically looked around the hovel. “Cole! Where are you! Come out and face your punishment.”

He stepped towards the cellar, but Mama blocked his way.

Papa sneered. “I knew he was down there. Not a lot of places to hide in this shithole.”

“Leave him alone.” Her resolve was breaking, and she struggled to push back tears.

“Get out of my way, Woman!” he snarled. “That worthless bastard has cost us everything! I should have drowned him in the river when I had the chance.”

“Don't say that!” she sobbed, but refused to move from the door.

He stepped towards her, each step carrying the threat of pain if she didn't move. He had almost reached her when his foot nudged something on the floor, the motion kicking it under the table. He glanced down at it, spotting the glint of something metal. He clumsily stooped down--stumbling and catching himself in his drunken stupor, before picking it up. It was the knife Cole's mother used earlier to cut herself.

He turned to her, brandishing it menacingly, “What the hell is this?”

“I was teaching Cole how to control his powers, so this wouldn't happen again.”

“There's blood on this knife!” He held it up so she could see the streak of red on the edge of the blade. “Blood magic!?”

“NO!”

“Maleficar,” he spat the word like filth from his mouth. “I should have known you were more than just a miserable apostate.”

“I don't even know blood magic!”

“What other kind of magic requires a bloody knife?”

“It's not...” She was upset, terrified, and couldn't seem to explain it to him. “It's not what it looks like, I was trying to teach him...”

“Maker take you and your foul magic, witch!”

She didn't even have time to react. With one hand he shoved her against the door and, with the other, he plunged the knife into her stomach.

Cole could only watch the scene in horror. His mother gasped, her eyes locking on her husband, now her murderer. He stepped back from her, and she collapsed to the ground, clutching her stomach as blood seeped between her fingers and from her lips.

Bloody knife still in his hands, he followed her to the ground, ready to strike again.

Cole didn't see the dagger come down. The scene around him changed abruptly, and he found himself in the cellar. The sounds of a deadly stabbing could still be heard upstairs.

“What the...” he tried to run for the stairs, but Compassion appeared in front of him, causing him to stop.

“Out of my way, spirit!” he growled.

“This is a memory,” his voice was calm, but firm. “You can't save her.”

“I still want to see it.” His voice was a mixture of anguish and rage. “If that asshole is going to kill her, I want to witness it.”

“That will make it hurt more.”

Cole raised his hand in the air. He wanted to hit something, anything, but there was only Compassion, so instead he grabbed his face with both hands and turned away from the spirit. He took a shuddering breath, unable to stop the angry tears that stung his eyes.

The cellar door suddenly swung open. Compassion stepped to the side as Dad came stomping down the steps. His small shirt was now covered in fresh blood, including the clear imprint of a hand on the side. He held the bloody knife, forcefully walking down the stairs as he went hunting for new prey.

“Cole! Come out! You know what the punishment is!”

The cellar wasn't very large, maybe a couple of shelves for liquor that were now mostly empty. Papa glanced around each one, his knife at the ready.

The real Cole, at the sight of the man, scrambled back, hiding himself in the far corner under the stairs, trying to make himself as small as possible.

“He can't see you,” Compassion soothed him. “He can't hurt you.”

Cole didn't care; he still wanted to be out of Papa's site.

“You've evil in you, boy, passed down by your mother.” He spotted a blanket on the ground, and snatched it up, only to throw it down angrily when it revealed nothing but some old clothes. “You'll pay the price just as she did!”

A whimpered sob came from underneath the steps, and both Papa and the real Cole turned towards it. It was the first time Cole had noticed his boy-self was also under the stairs, in the opposite end in the narrowest section. He held his sister tightly in his arms, and from the horrified look on their faces, they knew they'd been discovered.

“There you are, you little bastard!”

The boy was trapped, and could only cower as the burly man charged over, grabbing him by his hair and yanking him out from under the stairs. Bunny was released and she screamed, cowering back under the stairs. She could only watch helplessly as Papa threw Cole against the wine shelf with enough force to send several bottles shattering to the ground.

“Do you see this, boy?” Papa screamed at him, stretching out his shirt, pointing at the blood with the knife. “Do you see what you made me do, you filthy Maleficar!”

The real Cole squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it all out. It was useless; these were his memories, and closing his eyes didn't stop him from feeling and remembering the beating he'd received. Every hit, every kick, every strike from the man; his younger self sobbing and crying out with every blow. He knew this terror and pain first hand. It was far from the first beating he'd endured from his father, but he had been certain this one would be the last.

He could hear Bunny still crying in the corner. He'd never known his father to lay a hand on the little girl, likely because she never had magic, but at this moment he felt pity for her, too.

“Your foul curse ends here!”

Papa raised the knife, ready to end the life of the cowering boy, but it never came down. The man hesitated, the blade frozen in the air for what seemed like an eternity, before letting the knife clatter to the ground. Papa's expression softened and he staggered backwards from his son, collapsing to the ground and struggling to get up again, before slowly clambering up the stairs.

Cole didn't dare open his eyes until he heard the cellar door slam shut. When he did, the sight before him was all too familiar. Broken bottles and wooden splinters were scattered upon the floor. His boy-self was curled up against the wall in a fetal position. The pose didn't keep the real Cole from seeing the blood from his head and the bruises on his arm.

He watched his younger self slowly uncurl himself, his hand gripping his stomach where his father had kicked him several times. He weakly sat up, resting his head against the wall, his face as bloodied and bruised as his arms. One eye and a cheek were rapidly swelling. Despite the damage, he was grateful it was over.

Bunny crawled out from under the staircase, and slowly shuffled over to her brother. It was a walk of shame, her tiny hands clinging to her toy rabbit like a shield as she looked at him.

“I'm sorry, Cole,” she said pitifully. “I tried to be quiet, I really did.”

The boy didn't look at her. He stared to the side, wincing in pain. He refused to look at her. Bunny sat down in front of him, waiting patiently for him to acknowledge her. It would feel like an eternity before he finally did.

The real Cole saw Compassion come into view and look at him. He said nothing as the spirit squatted before him, his expression one of pure tenderness.

They sat like that for a long time before Cole finally spoke. “Why!?” He turned back to the spirit, his tear-stained face contorted in anger. “Why would you show me this?”

“It was hurting you.”

“Look at me!” Cole shook with rage. “It still hurts!”

“You didn't kill your mother,” Compassion's tone remained soft, never wavering. “This wasn't your fault.”

Cole felt his anger melt away, replaced instead with the pain he was trying to hide. His voice grew softer; a hoarse, aching whisper, “He thought I was using blood magic on him. That I controlled his mind and made him kill .” He swallowed, finding it harder and harder to speak, “What if I did? What if I...”

“No. No blood magic. This was all his doing, and he knows.”

“I ruined the farm,” he choked out in a sob. “I deserved to be punished.”

“Not like this.”

Cole noticeably relaxed. Those were exactly the words he wanted to hear, needed to hear. Without another word, he crawled over to the spirit and grabbed him in a hug, weeping into his shoulder.

Like before, it felt different from hugging a human, like feeling warmth and energy without touch, but it still felt good. Compassion wrapped his arms around him, returning the hug and stroking his hair, whispering soothing words into his ears. They remained this way until Cole finally woke up from his dream.


	3. Chapter 3

“You exist to help others. You are Kindness, Compassion, Caring. If you stop giving comfort, you would twist into something else...Never forget your purpose. It is a noble one, even if this world does not understand.“  
-Solas to Cole, DA:I

 

Val Royeaux is the largest city in all of southern Thedas, and the capital of the mighty nation of Orlais. It is the seat of the dominate religion, the Chantry of Andraste, and the largest of the Circles of Magi, known as the White Spire.

The Spire can be seen from anywhere in the great city, and is even magically lit at night to resemble a white sword thrust upwards towards the heavens. Several thousand mages, templars, and Chantry priests called this tower home.

And not a single one could hear the wailing coming from the depths of its deepest dungeons.

“Somebody! Help! Please! Anybody!”

Cole's voice had already grown hoarse, both from screaming and from the dryness on his lips and in his throat. The trickle of water that kept him this long had dried up completely, leaving him nothing to eat and nothing to drink. Either someone had found the leak and fixed it, or the trickle only came with the rain, and the rain had stopped. It didn't matter, though; it was just another thing threatening to kill him.

His hands were bloody and bruised from pounding on the door of his cell. He didn't care anymore if the templars or something worse came and killed him. Dying to a sword, dying to anything, was preferable to starving alone in the dark.

No matter how much noise he made, how loud he screamed, how much he hurt himself banging in his cell, no one came. No one heard.

He slid to the ground again, back to the door, cradling his head in his knees. The pains in his stomach had become unbearable, and there was no end in sight. If he didn't find something to eat soon...

He'd made several attempts to catch the rats and roaches that invaded his cell, but the darkness and his weakened state made even that task impossible. He wished he'd learned more magic from his mother before she died; he might have at least figured out how to cast a light spell.

The stinging in his hands reminded him of at least one spell he knew. He brought them close to his face, and could just make out the blood and torn skin. The pain in his hands still paled compared to the pain in his belly, but at least his hands he could heal.

He raised one hand over the other, but hesitated, remembering his dream. Am I really summoning Compassion when I heal? He'd never known what kind of spirit he was calling when he healed himself and others. It seemed strange to actually know it on a personal level.

His mother had instructed him to be polite when calling the spirit, but he hadn't always done so. The first time, he was even rather rude about it, hoping to sabotage the spell by offending the spirit he was calling. Yet the spirit came anyway. It didn't complain, or protest, it just helped.

'Him' now, he reminded himself, not 'it.' Compassion.

He didn't use words as we know them when summoning a spirit, but willed the magic to flow through him, then brought the spirit to mind, willing it to heal him. Before he had been forceful about it, demanding, but now he chose to be kind and polite. Mustering all of his unsteady focus, he asked Compassion to heal him.

A soft glow enveloped his hand, and he found himself blinking in surprise. Even this weak light penetrated the darkness enough to hurt his eyes when he had his hands so close to them.

When the spell was finally over, he rubbed his hands together, confirming that they were whole again.

Thank you, he thought to himself, although he had no way of knowing if Compassion could hear him.

This didn't solve the wracking pain in his stomach, however. It felt like it was being squeezed tight by an unseen hand, crushing it. He'd felt hunger before, but this was on a completely different level. He hugged his belly in the hopes of alleviating the agony. It didn't seem to help.

It was then that a crazy thought hit him; could Compassion heal this? It seemed a long shot; an empty stomach certainly wasn't a bloody wound, but could he at least get rid of the pain?

His hunger made it difficult to focus, but he took a deep breath and concentrated. His hands were already on his stomach, so he channeled the power there and asked again for Compassion to ease his pain.

The glow was less painful to his eyes this time, although it also wasn't as illuminating as he'd originally thought. There was a soothing feeling in his belly, and for a moment he thought it might actually be working.

Then something changed. The feeling of soothing turned to a sensation of confusion, then frustration. He knew immediately he was feeling Compassion, and that something was wrong. A sudden, intense wracking pain in his belly made him gasp and he lost the spell all at once.

He slumped to the floor, his energy spent from the simple spell-casting. One thing about being hungry all the time, he noticed, was that his body also wanted to sleep all the time. It was a blessing, as he preferred the Fade to the waking world right now, and he had a feeling his next encounter with Compassion would be interesting.

*****

Sure enough, the moment Cole stepped into the Fade, he saw himself--or at least Compassion looking like him--waiting for him. He was pacing back and forth in agitation, but the moment he spotted the real Cole, he approached him intently.

“It wouldn't listen to me,” he cried out in irritation. “I told it to be at ease, to stop, but it won't listen.”

“What...do you mean it won't listen?”

“It refuses to stop hurting you till it gets what it wants. I asked it to stop and it won't listen!”

Cole was suddenly horrified. “Are you saying there is something inside me?” The idea of a demon possessing him terrified him, and he clutched at himself protectively.

“Not a demon, this is always inside you,” the spirit tried to explain. “It's crying out for food, and it's making you hurt till you give. It's griping, grave and grieving. It won't stop.”

Realization dawned, “Wait, are you telling me you're having conversations...with my stomach?”

“It won't listen!” Compassion exclaimed again, wringing his hands, “It insists it needs food. I don't understand.”

This was a whole new level of weird. “Well, yes, it needs...I mean...I need food.”

Compassion looked at him, perplexed. “Why?”

Cole raised an eyebrow, “You don't understand food?”

“I,” the spirit looked rather indignant, “I understand people like food. Choosing, chewing, chomping, a...and sometimes choking, which is bad, but I...I don't understand. Why would your stomach hurt you to get it? It's just food! It doesn't have to be angry about it.”

Cole stared at the spirit, shocked. It really didn't understand. “So, you're a spirit of compassion, but you've never had to comfort someone who was starving before?”

“Yes...sort of,” it looked away from Cole, nervously. “No...I only get called to heal hurts. No one called me to heal hunger, until you.”

Cole's heart sank, “I didn't actually call you to heal my hunger. Not really. I just...wanted it to stop hurting.”

“And that's what I do, it's who I am,” Compassion stated, “I help the hurting, and your belly is hurting, but it won't listen. Why won't it listen?”

Cole took a deep breath, centering himself, “People need food. It's kind of necessary for us to live.”

Compassion gave him a perplexed look, “Why?”

“It...” How do I explain this. “It sustains us, keeps us alive, gives us energy.”

“You mean like the Fade?”

That made Cole hesitate. “I'm...not sure. How does the Fade work for you?”

Compassion thought about his answer for a minute, before giving a very familiar answer. “Spirits need the Fade. It sustains us, keeps us alive, and gives us energy.”

Cole shook his head. “I don't think it works the same way, though.”

The spirit looked more confused and distressed than ever. “I need to understand if I'm to help you.”

“I don't think you can help me,” there was no malice or cruelty in Cole's words, only patience.

Compassion shook his head. “I have to help you. You asked me to help you, so I have to find a way. I have to!”

The spirit's determination took Cole by surprise. He still didn't think Compassion could save him, but who else could? He didn't want to die in that cell, alone and forgotten, and this spirit really was his last hope.

“Then I sincerely hope you find a way, friend,” he whispered.

*****

It was clear not much time had passed, maybe a few weeks to a month since the last Fade-conjured memory. The side of the hovel and field were still scorched and black, but the laundry and other items damaged items were now cleaned up. An additional patch of burned ground could be seen in the front of the house; a funeral pier that had, at last, consumed its morbid sacrifice.

Despite the house being occupied, it was deathly quiet. Cole and Compassion entered the home to find both children in the kitchen. Bunny was under the table, her favorite spot, and was spinning a wooden top over and over again. The young Cole stood over the wash bowl on the same table, cleaning a handful of cups. The only other notable fixture in the room was a patch of new floorboards, made of fresh young wood, placed in front of the cellar door. Neither child went near them unless they absolutely had to.

The air in the room was heavy with repressed emotion. There were no tears, but the weight of what had happened in this house was still felt, even now.

Compassion walked past the children towards the cellar, opening it and descending the stairs. Cole followed, and both were greeted by the image of Papa, sifting through alcohol bottles. This wouldn't be a surprising image, except the man was perfectly sober. He wasn't drinking anything, simply collecting specific bottles in a crate next to him.

“I remember this,” the real Cole whispered under his breath.

The spirit spoke up, his tone hushed to reflect the feel of the house. “This memory was not buried.”

“Then why show it to me?”

Compassion didn't answer him. They both watched the man as he continued to take bottle after bottle: wine, liquor, ale, mead, rum; it was all here. He inspected each one, putting some in the crate while leaving others on the shelf.

Satisfied he'd found the ones he wanted, he moved the crate aside and turned back to the wrack. He pulled another bottle off the shelf, a simple, generic one with a brownish-yellow drink inside. He gazed at it for a few moments, his expression unreadable, before suddenly throwing the bottle against the far wall with a loud smash.

The watery, discolored drink dripped from the walls, along with a few small shards of glass that couldn't stick. Papa seemed unusually satisfied with himself, and soon was grabbing another bottle from the shelf and throwing it at the wall with the same zeal.

The smashing of bottles caught the attention of the children upstairs. Boy-Cole slowly and carefully opened the door, descending the stairs just enough to see his father. He watched as Papa grabbed yet another bottle and, this time with a roar, threw it against the wall.

The boy didn't remain unnoticed for long; Papa glanced up the stairs and spotted him. He was calm, and even smiled slightly, but being spotted caused the boy to recoil from the edge of the stairs; too afraid to stay, but also afraid to run.

“Come down here, Cole,” Papa beckoned. The boy didn't move, visibly frightened, perhaps even terrified, and the man sighed, making his voice as soothing as he could. “I'm not going to hurt you, boy. Come down.”

The young Cole finally obliged, descending the stairs in a steady and deliberate manner. He got to the bottom of the stairs and stopped, still staring at his father with dread.

Papa picked up another bottle, looking at it briefly before handing it to Cole. “Want to try a throw with me?”

The boy hesitated, staring at the bottle with confusion before finally stepping forward and taking it. He looked down at it, clearly disgusted by what he was holding.

Father grabbed another bottle from the shelf, glanced back at his son, and then threw it with a grunt against the wall as hard as he could.

The sound of glass shattering on the wall startled Cole, and he stared in shock as the liquor dripped to the floor, still holding the bottle his father gave him.

“Come on, boy,” Papa said with amusement as he looked at his son. “I know you want nothing more than to destroy that shit.”

The boy looked down at the bottle, pursing his lips and gripping it angrily. With all his might, he winded the bottle up and threw it against the wall. It landed lower than his father's, almost to the ground, but it still hit the wall with a satisfying smash.

Papa chuckled, then quickly grabbed a couple more bottles, handing one off to his son before breaking his against the wall.

Father and son continued this activity for several minutes, shattering bottles against the far wall until the planks were covered in class shards and smelly drink. Their strange game attracted the attention of Bunny, who appeared at the top of the stairs, unnoticed, watching them. Before it was over, the young Cole was laughing, the happiest he'd been since before...

It wasn't long before every bottle that was left on the shelf was completely destroyed. The younger Cole looked up at his father. His breath was heavy from exertion, but he was smiling. Papa even gave him a smirk in return.

The boy spotted the crate full of bottles, and started going for them, but his father stopped him. “Wait, wait, not those.”

The mirth was suddenly gone from the boy's face as he looked at his father suspiciously.

“I'm taking those into town and selling them,” he said reassuringly. “They have value, and, with any luck, I can sell them for enough to get us through the winter.” He gestured towards the newly decorated wall. “This stuff was just worthless swill, so I figured I'd put it to better use.”

Cole noticeably relaxed, although the joyfulness did not return. He turned away from his father, looking back at the crate of liquors for no other reason than to keep from looking at his Papa.

His father broke the silence. “I know you and your sister will probably never forgive me, Cole,” he spoke in a melancholy whisper, one heavy with the weight of shame and regret. “I doubt I'll ever forgive myself, but I want you to know that I will change. I will never touch another drink as long as I live and,” he turned to look at his son, “I will never hurt you ever again. I swear it!”

There was a long stillness between them, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking. The boy was the first to move, walking away from his father, “I miss Mama.” He began ascending the stairs.

“I miss her too, Cole.” The boy stopped, but didn't look at his father. “I also miss my children, especially my son. I know things are tough, but all we've got is each other now. Can we...” he hesitated, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh, “can we at least try and be a family again?”

The sound of a shard of glass falling to the wooden cellar floor was the only sound that permeated the room. Cole was still at the bottom of the stairs, and only made a quick glance up at his sister at the top. She gazed back at him, a silent exchange between the two of them. An exchange that made clear a compromise had been made; one neither of them wanted, but one they also needed.

His father was right; they only had each other now.

Silently, the young Cole spun on his heels and rigidly walked towards his father with determination. The man went down on one knee, placing himself at the boy's level, and Cole practically fell into his arms, hugging him tight. Bunny followed suit, running down the stairs and joining them in a three way hug.

One happy family.

*****

Compassion felt good about this scene. He always liked seeing a person realize they'd done wrong and work to make it right, a story of saving and forgiving. He had hoped it would invoke the same feelings of relief in Cole.

Yet, even before the scene had concluded, he sensed something wrong.

When he looked at Cole, the real Cole, he didn't see happiness, or contentment, or forgiveness. Cole had his arms folded in front of himself, his shoulders scrunched and tense. He stared at the scene with such intensity, it was any wonder a fire didn't ignite spontaneously around them. His contorted expression could only confirm what Compassion was sensing from him; he was filled with pure, barely-contained rage.

The spirit willed the scene to end, and the players all vanished. He looked at Cole, confused and concerned. This was not the reaction he was expecting at all.

Cole said nothing. He unfolded his arms, marching up the stairs and out of the cellar without ever looking at the spirit. His reaction was strange, even frightening, but Compassion needed to understand. He needed to help.

Compassion found Cole outside, staring away from the farmhouse into the Fade. His anger was strong enough to have an effect on the dream world. The environment was growing darker, the shifting green turning a reddish-orange, like flames; the floating rocks in the sky became more jagged and menacing. It was not like the carefully constructed and gentle world Compassion had created, and he knew he had to find a way to calm the human down before he attracted demons of the like.

He approached slowly, allowing his presence to be felt, but not saying anything. A slight turn of the head indicated that Cole knew he was there.

“I told you I remembered,” he said in a growling whisper.

“Yes,” the spirit responded.

“It wasn't buried, so why did you show this to me?”

Compassion was nervous, twisting his hands in front of him as he responded. “It...it's part of the dagger. It was twisted with the memory.”

“Did you really have to recreate it in the Fade to untwist it?”

Compassion hesitated, then hung his head. “No.”

“Then why?”

His accusing tone made Compassion flinch. “It was a happy memory. I...I thought it would make you happy.”

Cole spun on the spirit, hate still burning in his eyes. “Are you really that stupid? The man who murders my mother becomes warm and fuzzy, making promises I know he won't keep, and I'm supposed to be happy about it?”

Compassion gave him a hurt expression, shrinking away from the angry mage. It didn't help. Something had snapped in Cole, and he wouldn't let up.

“You don't even understand the basics of what it means to be human. How the hell do you expect to help me with this?” Compassion opened his mouth to answer, but Cole wasn't finished. “Do you even have a family? Parents? Do you know what it's like to have someone like that hurt you?”

“Spirits don't have families,” the spirit answered feebly.

“You have no way of knowing what I've been through, spirit.” He spat the term out like a curse.

“Not true,” Compassion gulped, wringing his hands nervously, his voice cracking in distress. “I...I can sense pain, I feel it like it's my own, then I heal it. I know...”

“It's. Not. The. Same!” Cole emphasized each word, taking a menacing step towards Compassion each time. The frightened spirit took a defensive step back in response. “Even if you really do 'feel' it, you didn't experience it. You didn't live it. How could you? Spirit's don't live.”

“We do, too!” Compassion was trying desperately to defend himself from these confusing accusations while still trying to figure out what went wrong. It didn't usually hurt to help someone.

“Admit it! I'm nothing more than a project to you; a selfish means of fulfilling your idiotic and misguided purpose.”

“No!” Compassion protested. “You're more than that! You're my friend!”

“You're a spirit.” Once again, he spat out the word like it was bile in his mouth. “You don't know what it means to be a friend.”

Compassion may has well have taunted a rage demon; every word burned and scorched his being like a hot iron. What happened? What did I do wrong? He tried to dig into Cole's mind, to find answers hidden within, but he struggled to get past the anger.

“Stop it!” Compassion glared back, though the spirit couldn't hide the pain in his eyes. “You're saying these things just to hurt me. You don't mean it. Please, stop!”

“Why should I?” Cole snarled. “When people hurt, we don't seek out some spirit who wears the label of 'Compassion' like some fancy hat. We look for those who have been through what we've been through, felt our pain, lived our experiences. You can't do that, spirit. You can never do that. How can you know real compassion if you know nothing about being human?”

“Stop!” Compassion screamed, grabbing his head in agitation. He couldn't take anymore; the hurt was too much. He had to flee.

Without another word, the spirit vanished.

*****

Silence fell over the Fade. Not even a ripple, a breeze, or a wisp could be heard. It slowly dawned on Cole that he was alone. He looked around and saw the world he'd created for the first time. It was red, sharp, and angry, but also completely empty; the same way it had been before Compassion came to him.

His anger slipped away and his heart sank. The Fade changed again, a sheen of ice and snow covered his angry world, dousing the flames. Cole shivered reflexively, even if he couldn't feel the cold around him. It wasn't real; and he knew there was no one else doing it. It was him, the Fade reflecting himself, and right now he felt cold and alone.

“Compassion?”

Nothing but cold silence greeted him.


	4. Chapter 4

“I liked the part with the rabbit. There should be more rabbits in stories.”  
\- Cole

 

He had no way of knowing how long he'd been in this dungeon. It could have been days, weeks, or even months. How long did it take someone to die of hunger and loneliness anyway? He had no idea, but he knew it was happening. His leathers--which once fit snugly to his already lithe frame--now felt loose on his arms and legs. He was so weak he rarely moved.

There was no longer any joy in sleep. He use to look forward to entering the Fade and being with is friend, but now sleep all too often left him dreamless. A person would sometimes, unintentionally, enter dreams on their own, but usually a spirit or demon had to draw them in. It was painfully obvious that Compassion was no longer pulling him into the Fade, and this realization made his heart ache more than his body.

Compassion had been right; he said all those terrible things just to hurt the spirit. He didn't even know why. The spirit had done nothing to hurt him, at least not intentionally. He had only wanted to help. Cole couldn't blame him if he never wanted to see him again.

He'd had dreams of being like his father one day; a proud soldier in the King's army. Perhaps they'd come true, in the worst possible way.

He tried using his magic once to summon Compassion to him. His mother said that was his specialty, calling spirits, but he'd never tried to call a very specific spirit before. Sure he'd brought Compassion to mind when he summoned him in his cell, but only because he knew it would be him that would answer. He wasn't so sure now. Would it call his friend, or a completely different spirit? Or perhaps even a demon?

He'd discovered a sharp edge on one of the stone walls in his cell, making it easy to cut himself. The pain didn't seem so bad anymore. It served as a reminder that he still lived; that he could still bleed.

He didn't cut himself for this purpose, however. Placing a hand over the wound he created, he tried to summon Compassion, specifically, to heal him. A spirit came, but he wasn't so certain it was his friend. There was no sense of familiarity, and the spirit simply healed his superficial wound, and then left. There was no comfort or reconciliation to be had this way.

The sound of squeaking in his cell reminded him he wasn't entirely alone. The rats still came to him, still nipped at him from time to time, but he was beyond caring now. As ghoulish as the thought was, he was grateful at least someone was getting something to eat.

He fought it as long as he could, but he felt his eyelids closing without his say so, and his mind falling into sleep. Would he dream this time? He had no way of knowing until sleep took him. At this point, he was actually hoping he could finally face the consequences of what he'd done.

*****

Empty. It was like walking in a desert, but without the sand; just shifting, ethereal rock and stone beneath him and floating in the sky above him. There was nothing else.

At least he was in the Fade again. If a spirit or demon had drawn him here, there was no indication of its presence. The fact that this place was so barren was pretty good evidence no spirit was involved this time.

He tried to create something himself, to form the Fade with his will, but it felt as though he had no will left...or that this was what he was willing into existence. It was probably the latter, as he felt nothing but a hallow emptiness inside.

It was bleaker than his dungeon cell, and he felt he'd go mad if he left it this way. He closed his eyes, trying to think of a different way to handle this. A memory? His cursed magic?

Spirit magic?

He had used this magic to call Compassion to heal his wounds while in the waking world...would the same magic work here in the Fade?

Even so, would Compassion be amenable to being called by him? He couldn't force a spirit to do something it didn't want to do, not without blood magic, but he still may not like being summoned. Still, an unhappy, even angry, spirit was preferable to this barren waste. He had to try.

He closed his eyes, reaching deep inside himself for the magical energy. It was stronger here, and he took an involuntary gasp, tying his best not to pull too much. He didn't want to find out what would happen if he overpowered the spell. He wasn't asking for the healing of physical wounds this time, but he did seek comfort, forgiveness, relief from this lonely nightmare.

The sound of running water pierced the silence, and he opened his eyes. The desolate waste was gone, and he found himself in a very strange, fantastical forest; a familiar forest. It was the same garden that Compassion had conjured for him when they first met in the Fade, only the spirit was nowhere to be found.

He walked towards the sound of water, moving around lavender tree branches, bushes that looked like a child's finger painting, and flowers that he swore were watching him. He spotted the river with the familiar upside-down waterfall. Sitting on the bank, his back to him, was the familiar shape of himself.

The spirit didn't acknowledge his presence, but he knew Cole was there. The mage had called to him, and he answered. He slowly approached, watching the spirit as he came near. The spirit was gazing into the water of the river, his legs kicking back and forth, sometimes splashing water about. The gesture made the spirit look surprisingly human.

He sat down on the bank next to Compassion, putting his own feet into the water and waiting. The spirit didn't move or even flinch. Cole had no doubt this was his friend, but something was different about him; something had changed. He couldn't quite put his finger on what, although he was certain he knew why.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered pathetically. “I shouldn't have hurt you.”

There was still no answer, no reaction except the continued kicking of the water. He dared to look at Compassion, to really look at him. His eyes still held pain and confusion, but no acknowledgment of Cole's presence.

With no response forthcoming, Cole filled the silence himself. “I was angry, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Like you said, I didn't really mean it.”

“You meant some of it.”

The spirit spoke in a mere whisper. Although happy to finally get a response, his words hit Cole like a punch in the gut. He couldn't deny it. He didn't know much about spirits. His mother had painted an image of them being wise, almost omnipotent, beings. He thought this especially true when it came to their chosen purpose; the emotion they chose to embody. Therefore, a spirit of compassion would know everything needed to know about compassion. It made sense that a creature whose entire life was centered on an emotion would be the perfect embodiment of it.

Compassion, however, had shattered that image when he revealed his naivety. He didn't have human experiences, and couldn't possibly know what it was like to feel real human pain. He could sense pain, and had a desire to help, but that seemed to be the extent of it.

There had to be more to it, though.

“You knew exactly what to say to me when you saw my mother murdered,” Cole said. “I was in pain, and you helped me. It would have hurt a lot more if not for you.”

Compassion stopped kicking his feet and lifted his head, but still didn't look at Cole, so the mage continued. “Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you don't need to have experienced something to be able to help someone. Maybe...” He took a deep breath. “Maybe all you need is an interest in helping someone.”

“Do you really think I could help more if I was human?” Compassion asked, still looking ahead.

The question took Cole by surprise. “Uh...do you want to be human?”

“No.” He said it without hesitation. “But...if I don't know what it's like to be human, how can I...I want to help! I need to help!”

Cole thought about it for a moment before answering, “Most humans don't want to help people. They'd rather ignore someone in pain than do anything about it. I think the world would be a much better place if more people were like you.”

“I like helping people,” Compassion said in a small voice. “I want to help you, but I don't want you to get angry at me again. I don't want to get it wrong again.”

“I shouldn't have gotten angry at you, Compassion. I'm sorry.”

Compassion suddenly stood up, spinning around and walking a short distance away from the river bank. Cole stood up as well, watching the spirit.

“I don't understand what went wrong!” The spirit was wringing his hands, pacing, but he still wouldn't look at Cole. “I don't want to hurt you like that again. I'm not suppose to make the hurts, that's not what I am. I heal! The hurting. It's all wrong. It's all backwards.”

The spirit turned around, finally looking at Cole, a look of desperation. “I need to understand! Why was it different? What did I do wrong?”

“I'm...not entirely sure myself, Compassion,” Cole responded somberly. “It's more complicated than that.”

“I...I thought the memory would help you, remind you that your father wasn't all bad. It was a good memory.”

Anger threatened again to take Cole, but he deliberately pushed it down to keep control. His hate wasn't going to help here. “My father was not a good man.”

“You say one thing, but you mean something else. I don't understand. The love is twisted with the hate, tangled, turning, tempered. You wanted to be just like him, but you don't. You want to hate him, but you don't. You want to...”

Cole's expression was hard to read, but he couldn't hide his thoughts from Compassion, and the spirit immediately sensed the rage coming up again. “No, no, I'm hurting you again.” The anguish in the spirit's voice was heartbreaking. “No, I don't mean to. Baffled, befuddled, bewildered. I need to bring it to an end, erase. I need to...”

The spirit set his jaw, a new purpose born within him, and he quickly began walking towards Cole. “I can make you forget.”

Cole wasn't expecting that. “What? What do you mean?”

Compassion brought his hand up, reaching for Cole's head, “I make you forget, then it all goes away. It all washes clean...”

“No!” Cole slapped the spirit's hand away, stepping out of reach.

Compassion recoiled from the mage, holding his hand while looking at him with a shocked and wounded expression. “But...but I can make it all go away.”

“I don't want you to make it go away.” Cole looked confused and even a little frightened. Neither could quite understand the other.

“Why?” Compassion was noticeably disappointed. “It hurts. I can make it stop.”

“Yeah, but...” He furrowed his brow, trying to think of how to explain it. “I prefer to keep my memories, even the painful ones. They make me who I am.”

The spirit shook his head. He seemed a little more upset about Cole's decision than he should be. “I don't understand. I help the hurting, that's who I am. To allow it to ache, to permit the pain, is not who I am, it's not me!”

“I can handle it,” Cole said as he looked at the spirit suspiciously, “You know I've dealt with far worse. It's not a big deal.”

“It hurts!” the spirit cried out, his voice cracking. “I want you to forget! For you. For me!”

“If you want to make yourself forget, go ahead. I don't mind.”

Compassion glared at Cole in frustration. “You are real, I am not. If the memory fixes in you, it fixes in me. I cannot set free what is fastened to the floor. It can't fly away, flee, final, forget.”

Despite the jumble of words, the young man suddenly realized just what Compassion was telling him. It was him, Compassion, that wanted to forget, but he couldn't, not so long as Cole remembered.

The young man was torn. He didn't want to forget. He knew better than most the value of memories, even painful ones. He was hopeful that this experience would strengthen his bond with Compassion, his only friend. It pained him to think this moment might be taken away from him.

The memory was clearly distressing the spirit, however, and he wasn't so certain bad memories had the same impact on spirits that it did on people. He sensed something different about Compassion when he approached him. It was something darker; cheerless and wrong. It was the first time he'd felt this come out of Compassion. He wouldn't think twice about it if he was human, but spirits didn't just feel emotions, they manifested as them. Could these new emotions have a negative impact on him?

He wished more than ever that he'd listened to his mother. She knew spirits well, and she would know what to do in this situation, but it was too late. She was gone and she'd never teach him anything ever again.

Cole had been angry at Compassion for not knowing about people, but now he realized he knew even less about spirits.

“I feel like you are asking me to lose a part of myself.” Cole shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“You would still be you, and I would still be me.”

Cole sighed. The spirit didn't get it. “There'd be less of us, though.”

“You'd be the same you you were before, and I'd still be me.”

The spirits eyes were pleading with him, and Cole felt his resolve shake. Maybe he should let the spirit erase his memory. Maker knows he owed Compassion after what he did. What harm could it do?

As he asked, the answer came to him; the harm of this same thing happening again. He could picture Compassion erasing the memory from both of them, only to bring up the same memory of his father, again, Cole becoming angry, again, and the whole process starting all over, again. How did they know this hadn't already happened before, that they weren't going through an endless cycle?

Or was he just making excuses...

He bit his lip, looking at Compassion. “Just...let me keep my memories, at least for now. Once you've helped me and, hopefully, found a way to save me from dying, then we can part with a blank slate. Will that work?”

Compassion looked down at the ground, taking on a thoughtful expression. He pursed his lips, before looking back at the mage. “I...think I can try till then, yes.”

Cole breathed a sigh of relief, putting a friendly hand on Compassion's shoulder. The spirit smiled in response.

Cole turned back to the Fade, gazing around at the odd world Compassion created. A few playful wisps buzzed around the pair, making musical chirping noises as they flitted about the strange garden, further enhancing its fantastical feel.

It was serenely quiet. A bit too quiet. Cole turned back to Compassion, who looked back at him in response. The spirit's expression was unreadable.

“Isn't this the part where you conjure up another of my memories?”

He wasn't necessarily looking forward to it, but it seemed strange that the spirit was so inactive. 

Compassion's face fell, and he hung its head, nervously. “We don't have to keep doing this, if you don't want.”

That was a reaction he didn't expect. “I thought you said you wanted to help me.”

“Yes, b...but,” he paused, looking briefly at the ground, before looking up at Cole again. His gaze became intense, focused, and although the mage felt nothing, he knew that the spirit was digging through his mind again.

When Compassion spoke once more, it was in a rapid, hushed whisper, like the one he used when they first met. “Fallen beam reveals what he hid. The soldier seethes; he hurts the hare. Must hide! Breath blocked by a panicked palm! The field in my fist, blood on the body, but he will never hurt anyone ever again.”

The spirit's hands twisting nervously in front of him, his voice returning to its normal tone “The heavy memory, the one you buried deep so you wouldn't have to see. It's free now. It can come out, but...” he trailed off.

Cole stared at the spirit in confusion. “But?”

Compassion was distraught. “I...I don't know if I can help you with it.”

The spirit's reluctance was uncharacteristic of him, and a bit disconcerting. It didn't take a strong intuition to recognize what was filling Compassion with doubt. So Cole decided to do something he thought he'd never do.

“It can't heal unless it comes out, right? Isn't that what you said to me?”

The spirit looked up at him, his expression confused. “Y...yes.”

“Like a splinter, the wound will go bad if we leave it. It has to come out, even if it hurts.”

Compassion was growing suspicious, but he nodded.

“Then we need to continue.” He stood straight, throwing his shoulders back in a stoic stance.

“You don't like it when I pull at the hurt, and this is the one you buried, boarded up because it burned your being. So much pain revealed already, but this one hurts most. We don't have to free it. We can leave it be if you like. I've...” The spirit stopped, hanging his head. “I've pulled enough pain.”

Hurts most. Meaning this one was worse than seeing his mother murdered. Cole's heart went cold with fear and dread, but he had to see this through. “I'm not looking forward to it, Compassion, but we've come this far. I'd like to finish it.”

The spirit looked skeptical, but Cole only stared back with determination. He didn't really want to see what came next, but Compassion needed to know he could still help, and Maker knew Cole still needed the help.

Compassion was silent for a moment, before giving a nod of acceptance. With a simple wave of his hand, the garden dissolved, and the familiar farm scene was set.

*****

“I'll come into my magic one day, you just wait!”

Cole rolled his eyes at his sister and his glowing hands hovered over her injured leg, “You don't want it, Bunny.”

“Yes I do!”

They were a few years older now, and Bunny was now just a little older than Cole had been when he discovered his magical talent. Her age left him with some hope she would never be cursed with magic, even as he admired and appreciated her naive fascination.

“Oh, yes, a life filled with hiding from templars, blowing up our livelihood, and father despising you is certainly a great life,” he said with bemused sarcasm. She gave him a dirty look, but said nothing.

The two of them were outside on what looked like a typical spring day, sitting near the rundown steps of their shack. Bunny was sitting on the ground, her knee wrapped in a bloody bandage, and her brother was leaning over it, casting a healing spell. She was an extremely energetic child, one who seemed prone to injury, and he couldn't help but wonder if she did this on purpose just to watch him cast spells.

His spell done, Cole proceeded to remove the bandage, revealing a perfectly repaired leg. Bunny bent it and raised it in the air, testing it, before standing up and gingerly putting weight on it. She hopped up and down a couple of times, reminding Cole yet again why he gave her that nickname, and she smiled at him.

“Now can you at least wait a few days before you do something like this again?”

Considering how she leaped about and began running away from their home, it was clear she wasn't listening. He shook his head in defeat, watching her as she frolicked about the yard.

He was sitting just outside the house, a house that hadn't been doing well these past few years. The door barely hung on its hinges, the paint was peeling, and the bare wood had already turned gray from neglect. The place looked as though it was only a few gusts of wind away from being blown away. Papa had promised to do some repairs, even expand on the tiny home so they could have more room, but he never seemed to get around to it.

After his father promised to quit drinking, Cole thought his bond with him might improve, and for a while, it did. He took him fishing, starting playing sword fighting with him again, and even took him along when making trips into town. That all changed just this last year. Papa had become increasingly more distant, and his trips into town no longer included his children.

Cole missed going into town the most. He was starting to make friends there with some boys his own age, and there was even a cute girl at the bakery he promised himself he'd actually talk to someday. His father didn't just neglect to take them, though; he flat out refused. This meant most of his time was spent at home, just him and his sister, trying to get by as best they could with so very little. They were no strangers to hunger and extreme poverty.

Deep in his thoughts, he leaned back against the porch with a sigh, but cried out in alarm when he almost fell through. A wooden board came loose, falling within and almost taking the mage with it. He quickly moved away, glaring at the loose plank. 'How many more things around here were going to fall apart?'

He reached inside to pull the plank out, and his hand touched on something smooth, narrow, and terribly familiar. He stretched his hand, wrapping his fingers around it, and pulled it out.

“Cole, what's wrong?” Bunny came running back, showing no sign of being out of breath.

Cole said nothing, but simply showed her the bottle of cheap swill he pulled from under the steps; the same kind he and his father smashed against the walls of the cellar years ago.

Bunny looked confused at first, but then her fists balled up in anger. “He lied to us!”

“I can't say I'm surprised.” Disappointment resonated in his voice, and he tossed the bottle aside in disgust. His father became mean and extremely violent when he was drunk, but he hadn't seen his father get to that point in a long time. He had already assumed his father's trips into town now included trips to the local bar, but the thought of him drinking at home again disgusted him as much as it frightened him.

“Out of my way.” Bunny shoved her brother aside with force that surprised even him and crawled under the porch. She pulled herself underneath until Cole couldn't even see her feet sticking out.

“By the Maker, Bunny, get out of there!” he started to poke his head in, but quickly withdrew as another bottle of liquor almost hit him in the face. He backed away and watched as bottle after bottle of his father's cheap spirits were thrown out onto the dry dirt.

“Bunny, stop! He's going to know we found his stash.”

She ignored him as more and more bottles were thrown out. One smashed near his feet, splashing its foul-smelling contents on the ground. He shook his leg in disgust, but could only wait helplessly for his sister to finish.

He noticed as he glanced around that not all of the bottles were cheap. There were more pricey bottles of dwarven ale and Antivan wines; the value of which could have fed their family for a month. He didn't really need more reasons to be angry with his father.

A few minutes and what seemed like a couple dozen bottles later, Bunny finally crawled out from under the steps. Her dress was now filthy, and her hair was covered in cobwebs, but she didn't seem to care. “That's all the ones I could find under there.”

“Great.” Cole's voice was leery. “Now what?”

Bunny brushed herself off briefly, then grabbed one of the bottles. Stealing a look at her brother, she brought it above her head, and smashed it into the ground as hard as she could. It shattered on the ground, dousing her and her brother in alcohol.

“Bunny! Don't!”

She didn't listen. She quickly grabbed another bottle and smashed it the same way. Then another, and another.

She had just grabbed another, when her brother ripped it from her hands, glaring at her, “You can't do this. Papa will be furious!”

“Why!” she scolded right back. “I'm just doing the same thing he did when he made his promise. I'm doing him a favor.”

“He won't see it that way.”

“I don't care how he sees it!”

“You will when he...”

Cole stopped. He was about to say “beats you,” but his father had never laid a finger on Bunny, just him and his mother. He wasn't so sure how Papa would react to knowing his precious little girl was the one who did this. She had never manifested magic, so he let her get away with a lot more than Cole. It was probably the reason she was being so bold right now.

The little girl took advantage of Cole's hesitation, snatching the bottle from his hands and quickly smashed it on the ground. Their porch, as well as the two of them, wreaked of the foul smell. Glass shards and broken bottles were everywhere, and Bunny was far from finished. Cole wasn't so certain he'd be able to hide this from the old man.

*****

The tiny kitchen in their run-down shack did have a tiny window that opened in the direction of town. Cole had it open now, and would look out periodically, waiting for any sign of his father coming home. His father was only violent when he was drunk, and he never came home drunk anymore, but he still worried. He still feared those dark days.

The door to the cellar opened, and he glanced over to see his sister emerge. She had removed her play dress, the one she wore when she went under the porch, and was now wearing a pretty, ruffled, yellow dress. He remembered her getting the dress last Satinalia, a rare luxury from their father. He hadn't seen her wearing it since that winter day.

When she saw him staring at her, she smiled. “My other dress was dirty and smelly, so I put this one on.”

“Don't go digging under the porch in that,” he warned.

“I won't.” She walked up to her brother, then made a face when she realized the booze smell till clung to him. “You need to wash your clothes, too.”

“I will, when I take a bath later. Unlike you, I don't have anything to change into.”

“Maybe Papa should have given you a pretty dress, too!”

Cole laughed out loud at that. “You think that would make me pretty like you?”

Bunny looked him up and down, trying to make a serious expression, but couldn't hide a slight smirk. “No!”

“Thanks a lot!” he replied in mock indignation.

He turned back to the window just in time to see a lone figure approaching the house from a distance. Cole's expression instantly became somber again and he moved away from the window. “Papa's coming.”

Bunny's grin dropped and she gazed at the floor in front of Cole. “He's gonna think you did it.”

“Yeah.” He let out a pained sigh. “Go into the cellar and stay there. I'll deal with him.”

“No!”

The force in her voice caught the young man off guard, and he stared down at his sister. “He's going to be angry, Bunny. I can handle it.”

“So can I!” She crossed her arms stubbornly in front of her. “I broke his bottles, and he should know it was me.”

“He doesn't need to know.”

“Yes he does!”

“I can protect you.”

“You'll just end up like Mama!”

They both fell deathly silent. The two of them rarely spoke of their mother since that horrible day, the memory bringing far too much pain. Invoking her name, especially at that moment, was a vice around his heart.

Cole wasn't the only one who reacted to her words. His sister's resolve fell, and she hung her head in shame. She had broken their unspoken rule, and cut open a wound that wouldn't heal.

She shifted her feet from side to side. “I'm sorry.”

Cole could only stare in shock. Is that what she's afraid of? A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it down, taking another glance out the window at the slowly approaching figure. Of course that's what she was afraid of; he was afraid of it, too.

“It's alright, Bunny. Maybe we can protect each other.”

Neither of them spoke for several minutes, waiting with dread as their father came closer to the house. Cole made sure to pull away from the window once he was close enough to spot him, and they simply waited for the inevitable.

There was no yelling or cursing as he approached the porch, but the minute the sound of boots on dirt turned into boots crunching glass, the footsteps suddenly stopped. The silence was more terrifying than the noise, broken every once in a while with another crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Cole and Bunny looked at each other. Neither said a word; they didn't have to. A silent promise passed between them. They were on the same team, the only members, and they were as ready as they would ever be for what would come next.

Finally the door slammed open with a loud bang, and Papa stood before them. He was sober, but his face was contorted with rage as he stared at his children. His eyes, however, set on Cole.

“What happened outside?” he asked with a cold whisper that petrified the young man.

“We found your stash.” He was surprised at how boldly he said it, with his heart threatening to pound out of his chest.

“I could see that,” he snarled. “Why is it shattered all over the porch?”

Bunny spoke up this time. “Because I smashed them!”

His gaze snapped to Bunny, and a glimmer of surprise mixed with his rage. “What?”

“You promised us!” She was trying to be strong as she scolded her father, but with his gaze now bearing down on her, her words came out as a whimper, cracked and weak as she spoke.

“You did this, Bonnie?”

The young girl set her jaw and squared her tiny shoulders as best she could. “You smashed them when you made your promise. I was just doing the same.”

He took another menacing step towards her, but she stood firm. “Do you have any idea how much those bottles cost me, girl?”

“You lied!” She screamed out the last word, her anger matching his. ”I did you a favor. You can't drink if you don't have...”

His reaction was so quick that neither Cole nor Bunny saw it coming. The backhand sent the little girl crashing into the cupboards next to her, and she crumbled to the ground like a rag doll.

She stared back up at her father, a look of wide-eyed shock mixed with pain. It was the first time he'd ever struck her, and she didn't know how to react, even as he started bearing down on her again.

“You want to find out how much you cost me, girl!” he raised his hand to strike her again.

He was interrupted by his son. Roaring with anger, Cole leaped onto the old man, grabbing his father from behind in a choke hold. It caught the man off guard, stumbling backwards as Cole pulled him away from his sister.

It didn't last long, however. Unlike Cole, Papa had military training, and he quickly grabbed Cole's arm, leaning forward so fast and with such force that the young man flipped over his head, landing on one of the dining chairs and splintering it. Pain exploded in Cole's back and he cried out in agony.

“You want some of this, too, boy?” he started approaching the boy in a menacing manner, but was stopped when a pair of small arms suddenly grabbed his leg.

“Stop! Don't kill him!” Bunny hung on like a vice, trying with all her might to pull the large man away from her brother.

Her physical efforts were useless, but she succeeded in getting his attention. He reached down, grabbing her hair and throwing her against the cupboards again. “What is this nonsense? Are you two trying to plot against your own father?”

He turned away from Cole, bearing down on the whimpering girl again. Despite the pain in his body, Cole leaned forward and, without even trying, he felt power began to course through him. Normally he fought it, but he welcomed it now, channeling into his hand were it began to crackle and spark. He may not have his father's fighting skills, but he did have something his father didn't.

With one swift, clumsy motion, Cole released the power from his hand towards the old man. It hit him square in the back, blasting him into the cupboards with enough force to break one of the doors. He slumped to the floor, curled up like an infant, his body twitching from the electrical blast.

Papa's groaning and the crackling of static were the only things heard in the house for what seemed like an eternity. The only movement in the hovel was Cole slowly and painfully standing up, his hand outstretched, ready to call the magic back if he had to.

It wasn't long before the man fixed his eyes on Cole, and slowly began to stand himself. There was still rage there but now it was mixed with a new emotion he'd never seen from his father. Fear.

“You're going to pay for that, boy,” his voice was a gruff whisper, and he hugged himself with both hands protectively. He staggered towards the door, throwing it open and stepping outside and out of sight.

The two of them didn't move, didn't say a word, as they listened to him shuffle around outside, the brief crackle of glass under feet, and then his steps moving back in the direction of town. It wasn't until he could no longer be heard that the two of them let out a collective breath.

Cole slowly walked over to his sister. She was still crouched in the corner where she'd been thrown, a clear red welt appearing on her cheek where Papa had struck her, and a small amount of blood trickling from a split lip. He leaned down, bringing his hands up to her face, and began calling the spirit to him.

Bunny interrupted him, slapping his hands away from his face and, in the same motion, throwing herself at his chest. She wrapped her arms around him and began sobbing. Cole noticeably relaxed, holding her with one hand and stroking her hair with the other.

“He's going to kill us,” he heard her say into his shirt.

He knew she was right. When and if their father came back, he was going to kill them. He had no doubt. He swallowed hard, looking around as though their tiny hovel would give some answers.

Bunny pulled away from him long enough to look up at her big brother. “What are we going to do? I'm scared.”

“I'm scared, too, Bunny,” he said in a whisper. “I think we need to get out of here.”

“Where?”

It was a good question, and he wasn't sure of the answer.


	5. Chapter 5

“Then the demon found us. It put me back in the cupboard on the bad day.”  
-Cole, DA:I

 

Neither of them had much in the way of personal possessions, so traveling light would not be an issue. Their physical wounds were now healed, thanks to Cole's magic, although the emotional ones promised to linger. They were no strangers to fear – indeed, it had been a life-long companion for them – but they'd never known terror like this. They were both certain that if Papa found them again, he would end it for good. He would kill them.

They had to leave.

“Where are we going to go?” Bunny said pitifully as she gathered up her still-dirty play dress and wrapped a handful of her toys in it.

“I'm hoping our neighbor will help us. Their farm is just to the south.” Cole was busy going through the cupboards in the kitchen, looking for anything resembling food that they could bring with them. He'd already emptied several, considering there was very little left in them as it was.

Even Bunny was dubious. They were once really close with the neighboring farm, and they use to trade their meager vegetables for fresh eggs and milk during harvest time. It belonged to a friendly, elderly couple, their children long since moved out, and their empty nest welcomed the two young kids whenever they visited. It had been a year since they'd spoken, however, since their father started growing distant again. The young girl wasn't so sure they'd even remember them, let alone welcome them in.

“We haven't talked to them in a long time.”

“I know,” Cole sighed, looking back at his sister. “But I'm sure they'll understand and help us. And if they don't, we can head into town after Papa leaves and get help there.”

Town was in the opposite direction they were heading. Even if the couple turned them away and they had to head into town, it would be well past nightfall before they arrived. The darkness meant less chance of running into him.

Cole set their meager belongings down in a blanket, wrapping them up in a bundle. “Do you have everything you need?”

Bunny nodded, keeping her head down in despair. Cole reached his hand out to her, waiting patiently for her to take it. Her hand was half the size of his, small and delicate, but it made them feel better knowing they'd be together. They wouldn't have to take this journey alone. They stepped out the door, Cole leading his little sister, and set off on their adventure.

Cole hadn't walked very far from the house before he stopped. Bunny felt the tug on her arm as she stepped in front of him and she looked back curiously. “Cole?”

“I...” He hesitated, looking back at the house, pursing his lips. “I think I forgot something, Bunny.”

“Oh? What?”

“Just wait here. I'll come back as soon as I can.”

He released her hand and rushed back to the house. He didn't go inside, however, but passed by it, heading for the farm land behind it.

He needed to find his mother's dagger; the one she buried in the center of the field. He'd forgotten about it, it being hidden all these years, and he realized the last thing he wanted was to leave it there for his father to find. Plus, it could prove useful to them.

He hadn't even emerged from behind the house into the field before he noticed something else that made his heart stop cold. A figure in the distance, staggering drunkenly towards the house. Papa.

He was early; way early. He usually spent the night in town, but the sun hadn't even set on this day. Cole quickly ducked back around the house and out of sight, hoping beyond hope that he hadn't been spotted.

“Cole?” He practically jumped out of his skin at the sound of her voice. His sister was right there next to him, looking concerned. “Cole? What's wrong?”

“Papa,” he whispered. “He's coming back.”

Her eyes went wide and she clutched at her bundle. She could only stare at her brother, not sure what to do now.

If they traveled now, he'd spot them for sure and go after them. They were trapped.

“Inside, now! We have to hide!” He tossed his bundle and ushered his sister into the house. It would be a while yet before he got there, but it still didn't leave them much time.

Bunny started running for the cellar, but Cole grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “No, that's where we hid last time. It's the first place he'll look.”

She looked up at him in desperation, her voice cracking with terrified sobs. “But there isn't anywhere else to hide.”

It's true, their hovel was so small that there wasn't even a spare bedroom. The family usually slept on the floor or in the cellar. There simply wasn't any place they could go.

Except...

“In here, Bunny! Hurry!” Cole pulled open one of the larger, undamaged cupboards and crawled inside. It normally held food, but what little food was in there, Cole had already pulled out for their trip.

He reached down to grab Bunny and pull her up, but she shook her head. “It's too small, we can't both fit in there.”

“Yes we can. Come on.”

She hesitantly took his hands and climbed inside. It was a very tight fit, but after a bit of shifting and squeezing, he got the both of them in. She sat uncomfortably on his lap, the heels of her feet digging into his leg as he grabbed the door to the cupboard and pulled it closed.

Despite the light outside, the cupboard shut it all out, engulfing them in darkness. He'd hidden in the cupboards before, when he was younger and smaller, but with both he and his sister in there, it was cramped and uncomfortable. It was still a safer bet than what lay waiting for them outside.

Bunny let out a strained sob, and she hiccuped, “I...can't...”

Cole shushed her, covering her mouth with his hand. “You need to be perfectly quite or he'll find us.”

They didn't have to wait long for the sound of the door slamming open, followed by the stomping of a drunken stagger entering the hovel.

“COLE!”

The young man said nothing, almost holding his breath as he listened to his clearly drunken father bumbling around. “Come out! I got a present for you! You, too, Bunny.” The sinister tone of his voice made it clear that neither of them wanted it.

The crashing sound of wood followed. “Get out here!” Another door, the one to the cellar, slammed open, and they heard him tromping down the stairs.

He took a deep breath, and a desperate whimper escaped Bunny. He felt her hot tears on his hand, and she twisted in his grasp, but Cole held her tight. Be quite, Bunny. It won't be long now. Maker, please, make him go away!

It wasn't long before they heard him stomp up the stairs again. “Where are you! I know I saw someone at the side of the house, you have to be in here somewhere! Come out and die like a man!”

There were more sounds of crashing wood, followed by a laugh that was a mixture of mockery and frustration. “You shouldn't have used magic on me, boy. The templars are coming now. I decided it was high time you joined a Circle with the rest of the filthy mages. They'll be here any day now, and when they do, you're gonna wish I'd found you first!”

Cole didn't think he could possibly be any more terrified, but his heart sank into the pit of his stomach, and he trembled uncontrollably. It was one thing to avoid the templars when they didn't know about you, but once they knew, they would hunt you relentlessly. His fate was sealed.

“Same goes for you, Bonnie. I told them you were a stinkin' mage, too. I'll teach you to mess with your old man.”

More sounds of splintering wood, and a few curse words. His voice went down to a mumble, but it sounded like words of doubt and resignation. It was in such a low voice that Cole wasn't sure if it that is what he heard, or just what he wanted to hear.

He heard the front door open again, and what sounded like him stepping outside. Muffled noises – including a strange crashing sound – followed, and then silence.

The two of them sat in the cupboard for what felt like an eternity. Bunny had stopped struggling a while ago, waiting just as patiently as him for the coast to be clear.

After several long moments of silence, and prompted by the uncomfortable confinement, Cole slowly opened the cupboard door. The hovel was empty, although the table and chairs were now damaged and splintered all over the floor; likely the source of the horrible noises he was hearing earlier.

“I think it's clear, Bunny,” he whispered to his sister, releasing her. He shifted, moving his sister off of his lap and to his side so he could let one leg fall out. He felt a sense of relief at this small freedom, but he was more concerned with what might be waiting outside. He continued to look around suspiciously, but found no sign of his father anywhere.

He started to climb out, but he hesitated as a new feeling of dread came to him. Something was very wrong. It had nothing to do with his father, but it made him pause. He looked down at his sister, her head still laying against his chest, her eyes shut, and a red, hand-shaped bruise forming over her mouth where he'd clasped her too hard.

“Oh, Bunny, I'm sorry,” he whispered regretfully as he put his arm around her shoulders. “I don't know my own strength sometimes.”

She didn't respond. She simply lay there, peacefully, her head still resting on his chest.

“For the love of the Maker, how can you fall asleep at a time like this?”

He tried again to crawl down from the cupboard, but it was difficult with his sister still leaning against him. She almost tumbled and Cole had to move fast, grabbing her by the shoulders to keep her from falling out head first.

A sense of unease crept up on him, but he shook it away.

“Bunny...you really need to wake up now.”

Still no response.

Dread came back in full force now. He cupped her chin, lifting her up so he could look at her face. The angry, red bruise was more visible now, a wicked, accusing mark. It covered half of her face, all of her mouth, nose, and cheeks. Only her eyes, still closed, were free of this horrific blemish.

Cole felt his heart throb in his chest as realization slowly dawned on him. He shook his head, a barely audible but frightened, “No!” escaping his lips.

“Bunny!” His voice was more urgent now, and he shook her gently, in another vain attempt to wake her up. “The coast is clear...you can get up now...get up!”

Shaking her only caused her head to slump to the other side, threatening to fall back into the cupboard, but he held her tiny body close. Even this aggressive gesture failed to gain a response from her.

“Bunny, wake up!” There was no hiding the panic in his voice, and he felt a burning behind his eyes. He reached into the cupboard holding her close to him, trying to feel for any signs of life. He thought he sensed something, but he couldn't tell if it was her beating heart he was feeling or his own. He touched her face, her neck, her stomach, shaking her each time, begging her to wake up. Nothing.

No! This isn't real. This can't be happening. He didn't know what to do. He pulled her out of the cupboard a little too quickly, and almost tumbled to the floor in a heap. He landed hard, winching in pain, but twisted his body so she wouldn't be hurt.

Cole didn't even care about the pain in his body; a pain far worse had his full attention. He felt a sob in his throat, and he hugged her, holding her close, but not too close; not too tight this time. He rocked back and forth, whispering soothing words in her ears.

“It's okay, Bunny. I'll go into town, I'll get help. The Chantry priests will help you. They'll save you. I know they will.” It was a lie he desperately wanted to believe.

The shoulder of her pretty yellow dress was now soaked with his tears, staining it to an ugly brown. He didn't know how long he held her like that, but he didn't want to let her go. He didn't want the finality that came with it, the threat of facing what he'd done...

But he had to let her go.

He gently laid her down on the floor, carefully posing her like a delicate porcelain doll. She still looked as though she were sleeping, and he wanted to find a blanket or toy to place with her, something that would comfort her. Nothing was handy; she'd have to lay here, on the cold wood floor all by herself.

“I'm sorry,” was the only thing he could say as he stood up to leave.

His movements felt heavy now, like an anvil sat on his shoulders. He stumbled towards the door, listening to it creek loudly as it opened. He didn't care anymore if someone heard him. He didn't care about anything. For the first time in his life, he felt truly isolated and alone.

He wasn't alone, however. Despite the gray dusk descending over the farm, he could see him. His father was on the side of the porch, where he had apparently fallen down on his back and passed out among the shards of broken glass and booze. It was a wonder Cole didn't notice his snoring; the soft, gurgled wheezing of a man who'd had far more to drink than anyone should. A glint of steel drew his attention to a sword the man had been holding in his hand, now lying on the ground next to him.

He looked content, smug, and happy, and it was all too much for the young man who had just lost everything. His sorrow turned to rage, and a new-found energy coursed through him. It wasn't magic; he didn't need magic. He had a new objective, something he should have done years ago after his mother's murder. Maybe if he'd done it then, Bunny wouldn't be...

He ran out into the field as fast as his legs could carry him, tears now streaming down his face; angry, fitful tears mixed with sobs. It didn't take long to find the spot, the spot he and his mother stopped at all those years ago, and he threw himself to the ground like a wild animal. He clawed at the land with all of his strength, pushing the dirt aside, forcing the hard, dry earth to yield to his fury.

It didn't take long for him to reach it; a piece of silk cloth, stained from the buried dirt, with something inside. He yanked it out, feverishly unwrapping it to reveal the contents. His mother's dagger, the one she got from her Chasind tribe. It was dirty now, the cloth having failed to completely protect it from the soil, but it was undamaged. He stood up, pulling the dagger from its decorative sheath in one swift motion as he marched towards the house.

He'd imagined, and even dreamed of, doing this for a very long time. He'd dreamed of it in many different ways, with magic, fire, a good shove at the perfect moment. Regardless of how he did it, he wanted it. He gripped the hilt of the dagger so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His tear-stained face only enhanced the intensity of his visage as he marched over to his father's passed-out form, and he gazed down at it with bloody intent.

The man looked peaceful, lying there; a sloppy peaceful. There was a brief moment of hesitation, of Cole wondering if this might be a mistake. It was very brief.

He walked over to his father, first standing directly over him, then kneeling down, straddling his stomach as he brought the dagger up. Again he paused, taking several deep, seething breaths as he looked down into the face of his father. Papa. The only family he had left...

With a loud cry of anguish, the dagger came plunging down with all the strength he could muster, sinking deep into the man's chest. Papa's eyes shot open in shock and horror as he gazed up at his murderer. The boy thrust it in as deep as it would go, and then yanked the bloody dagger out, only to bring it down again.

He hit his shoulder this time, deflecting off the bone and sinking into the muscle. It was harder to pull the dagger out this time, but with a pull fueled by his rage, he yanked it free. Blood spattered across his face, but he barely noticed. It's hard to notice the blood when all you can see is red.

Papa opened his mouth, perhaps to say something, but he only succeeded in coughing up more blood. Cole could feel his body spasm beneath him, blood gushing out of his chest and covering him. The man lifted a hand up, reaching for Cole, but his eyes never left his. Perhaps he was looking for mercy, to beg for his life, but all Cole could see was that he wasn't dead yet.

He stabbed again, but in his enthusiasm he missed this time, slicing the man's cheek open before the dagger sank into the earth next to his head. He lifted the dagger, determined not to miss again, and plunged it back into his chest.

He quickly lost count of how many times he'd stabbed him. He calmed down only long enough to lift the dagger in front of his face. He held the bloody blade where his father could see it, so Papa could see Mama precious dagger, and the one wielding it. His killer.

Cole had lived so long in fear, that there was a strange comfort in seeing the source of his fear looking at him in terror for change. He was in control now, not this man. Never again. He watched with cold, unfeeling eyes as his Papa breathed his last, gurgling breath, and was motionless beneath him.

Cole hadn't noticed that he was breathing fast and hard, hyperventilating. He let the dagger fall to the dirt with a thud, and he struggled to calm himself, clutching at his chest with a bloody hand. It didn't seem to work; he couldn't hold it back, not this time. Despite his best efforts, he gave into the heart-wrenching sobs that he'd been holding in for far too long.

He collapsed onto his father's chest, his head nestled in the dead man's neck, and he cried into Papa's shoulder.

*****

With a wave of his hand, Compassion ended the scene. Everything vanished; dream Cole, Papa, the house, the field, he left nothing but a barren wasteland with just him and the real Cole there.

The spirit turned to look at Cole, studying him. Cole was now sitting on the ground, his arms around his knees, looking at the scene with an almost glazed over look. He said nothing, and when he saw the spirit look at him, he put his head down, using his knees to hide his face.

He was numb. He could no longer suppress the memory, now that Compassion had exposed it, made it raw. That didn't stop him from trying to bury the pain, push it down so he couldn't feel it.

The spirit let out a sigh. He knew this wasn't going to be easy.

He sat down next to him in a similar position, looking over at the mage. Cole didn't move, didn't cry; he simply sat there, curled up as though he could still hide from it all.

“He was going to kill you,” the spirit said to him. “You did what you had to do.”

Cole looked up, leaving only his eyes exposed, and the spirit became fearful that he'd said something wrong again. He was relieved to sense that, although there was mild irritation, there was no anger.

The spirit looked away, furrowing his brow in concentration. He was struggling to get Cole to open up. Never before had Compassion dealt with a person who refused to feel the pain even after a memory had been laid bare. He hadn't even known a person could do that. The pain was there, regardless of whether Cole chose to feel it or not, and Compassion couldn't heal him if he pushed it down.

On the other hand, if he wasn't careful, he could easily tear the tangle of memories and tap his temper.

“He won't hurt anyone again,” Compassion whispered to him, his voice soft and sympathetic.

“No, he won't,” Cole's voice was soft, but frighteningly sinister.

“You were right. He was a bad man, and you...”

“Make me forget...”

The request caught the spirit off guard, and Compassion wasn't sure if he should be excited that Cole was now engaging him, or concerned about his change of character. “I thought you didn't like forgetting.”

“I need to forget this.” His voice remained even, but cracked ever so slightly on the last word. He was trying as hard as he could to bury the pain, but it was breaking free.

“I can understand wanting to forget your father, but...”

“I don't give a shit about him.” He snapped his head around to look at Compassion, his eyes flashing with anger, and the spirit winced. “He got what he deserved. I'm glad he's dead.”

Cole wasn't really glad, but Compassion knew better than to correct him.

“But...Bunny...I...I want to forget what I did to her.” Emotion swelled up inside, and tears threatened to escape from him. “She didn't deserve it, and I can't...” his head sank back into his knees, and he fought and failed, to hold back a chocked sob. “Make me forget...Please...”

Compassion stood up slowly and respectfully, moving to stand before Cole. The mage looked up at the spirit with tear-filled eyes, watching as Compassion knelt down in front of him.

Putting himself at eye level, Compassion lifted a single hand towards him. “Alright.”


	6. Chapter 6

“His pain caught the attention of a spirit...likely one of compassion...An uncommon spirit, certainly...And all too fragile, when its efforts to help proved to be in vain“  
\- Solas

 

“Compassion, tell this thing to leave me alone!”

Cole wasn't angry. Far from it; he was giggling like a small child. A tiny, glowing wisp had taken quite a liking to the mage, and was teasing and tickling him relentlessly. “Gah, make it stop.”

Compassion could only smile. “It wants to be your friend.”

“Clearly,” Cole said in mock frustration, playfully swatting at the glowing ball. The wisp dodged his “attack” easily, darting about, quivering and singing. It seemed to be laughing at the mage as well. “Does friendship for him include torturing me?”

The wisp suddenly stopped teasing Cole, it's song turning sad, and it slowly and woefully drifted away from him. “No, no, no!” Compassion rushed over to the tiny spirit, soothing it. “You're not really hurting him. Humans say strange things.”

Cole looked on, confused for a moment. “Did it think I was being serious?”

“It doesn't understand,” Compassion said, his hand still raised towards the wisp.

“I didn't mean it, little guy,” Cole walked up to the tiny spirit, holding his hand out in offering. The creature slowly approached him, hovering around his hand like a hummingbird around a flower. It didn't exactly land on Cole's hand, but it approached it, and Cole felt the strange sensation of energy as it touched, similar to what he felt when he touched Compassion. Cole smiled, bringing his hand up to “tickle” the strange creature. It trilled happily at the attention.

“I wish I could keep you, little guy, but I'm not sure wisps make good pets.”

Cole didn't know why this particular wisp had taken a liking to him, but Compassion did. This tiny spirit was “born” when Compassion pulled the traumatic memory of Bunny's death from Cole. The wisp, of course, was blissfully unaware of the nature of its creation, as such weak spirits are, but it somehow had enough awareness to recognize where it came from. Hence it was instinctively, and happily, drawn to Cole.

Compassion glanced around his realm, watching the other wisps that floated about. Most, if not all, of the wisps in this part of the Fade were memories he had freed from other people he helped. Some were even the memories he freed from himself, to keep himself pure. Most memories, smaller ones that didn't have enough substance to form a new spirit, simply evaporated away to join the existing energies of the Fade. Only stronger memories, like Cole's sister, had enough substance to create a new “life.”

“Is it...singing? It sounds familiar.” Cole asked, cocking his head to listen.

“Yes, everything has a song. Do you not hear them?” Compassion answered.

The wisp couldn't speak, but it gave off a sweet melody that reflected its joyful nature. Cole could only barely hear it.

“Does it have a name?”

“It is a wisp,” Compassion answered sincerely.

“I know what it is.” Cole half-laughed. “I want to know its name.”

“It is a wisp,” the spirit repeated, looking at Cole as though such information should be obvious now.

“No, I want to know what to call it.”

“Wisp.”

Cole sighed, looking at the spirit with mild frustration. “Do you even know what a 'name' is?”

“Yes,” the spirit was both confident and confused. “It is what you are. You are Cole, I am Compassion, and it is Wisp. It is what we are.”

Cole seemed to both nod and shake his head at the same time. He'd never truly understand spirits.

They both sat in Compassion's garden which, with Cole's help, had seen vast improvements. The trees now looked normal, with brightly colored orange and brown autumn leaves. The grass below them was bright green, swaying slightly in a non-existent breeze. The flowers...still felt like they were staring at him, but they at least looked like normal daisies and daffodils.

Cole released the wisp, which now happily floated just behind him. He casually approached one of the trees and started climbing it. Compassion merely watched curiously as the mage grabbed the lowest branch, swinging his legs up and catching it with his feet so he could swing his body up and onto it. He then carefully balanced on the branch, grabbing another just above him and hoisting himself up.

“I haven't climbed a tree since before my family moved,” Cole said to the spirit, smiling. “You'd think I'd be out of practice, but I guess it doesn't matter here?”

“What does 'practice' look like? If you are out, I could get more for you.”

Cole looked at the spirit strangely, then laughed. “How about you come join me instead. I betcha I can reach this next branch before you even get to the tr...”

The young man hadn't even finished his sentence before the spirit appeared directly above him, crouched down on the very branch Cole was climbing. Compassion didn't even make the branch stir as he looked down at his friend with a cheeky smile.

Cole wasn't as amused. “That's cheating!”

“What is?”

“You are supposed to climb up, like I did.”

“Why?”

“Because that's what normal people do.”

“Not here.”

Cole glowered at the spirit, before shaking his head and grabbing the next branch.

“You don't have to climb.” Compassion didn't understand why Cole would deliberately limit himself. “You're in the Fade. You can appear where you wish.”

“I like climbing,” Cole said with a slight grumble.

The spirit watched patiently as Cole clambered up the last branch to join him before sitting down at its base, leaning his back against the tree trunk. Compassion sat down as well on the thinnest part of the tree branch. If they had been in the waking world, this branch couldn't possibly have held his weight, but it didn't even bend.

Cole looked up, and caught site of a shiny, golden apple hanging from a branch above him. He smiled, reaching up to pluck it from the tree, and he turned it over in his hand. It looked normal, and delicious, and he eagerly took a bite.

Disappointment set in quickly. For a moment, Cole had forgotten that he was in a dream, not the real world. He may as well have taken a bite of air. He glanced down at the apple, an obvious bite now taken from it, but he had eaten nothing.

Compassion's expression softened. “Cole?” he asked remorsefully.

“I shouldn't have done that,” was Cole's only response as he allowed the apple to vanish in his hand, blowing away like feathers in the wind.

“I wish I could make it real for you.”

“I know.”

The spirit sensed the disappointment in him, and the painful reminder of the predicament he was in in the waking world.

“We try,” Compassion said sadly. “We make a mirror, a model, a mimic, but it always has mistakes. We can't match you, no matter how much we try.”

Cole gave a half smile, giving Compassion the satisfaction of knowing he'd made him feel better, even if some of the bitterness lingered. Memories of his mother and sister, the people he loved most, flitted across his mind. Now Compassion was there among them, a beloved friend, and it made the spirit very happy.

They sat quietly for several moments, Cole lost in his thoughts, and Compassion patiently waiting for him to say something, his legs swinging back and forth under the tree branch.

“Do spirits believe in the Maker?”

This certainly wasn't the line of questioning he was expecting. “I'm...not sure. Some do, and some don't, just like people.”

“Do you believe in the Maker?

The spirit wasn't accustomed to these kinds of questions. “Maybe...yes...I don't know.”

Cole leaned his head back against the tree trunk, letting one leg swing lazily off the branch. “The priests tell me that you spirits were his first children, but he turned away from you because you lacked the spark of the divine, whatever that means. Then he created us, giving us the spark, but then he turned away from us, too, because we sinned.”

Compassion merely nodded.

“It always confused me, the Maker. It seems cruel to turn away from His first children because of His own mistakes. He was the one who forgot to put the divine spark in you, didn't He? Why would He punish you for something He did?”

Compassion cocked his head. “I don't feel punished.”

Cole gave a slight laugh before continuing. “Still, what I mean is...if He can be so quick to condemn another for what He did...what chance do I have of going back to His side?”

Compassion turned his gaze towards Cole but said nothing, so Cole continued. “The Chantry priests always told me that the Maker only accepts his faithful to his side, but I'm a mage and a mur...murderer.” He struggled on the last word, trying to choke it down like a vile drink. It was the first time he'd referred to himself as such, and it didn't go down well.

Sadness overwhelmed Cole. “And if I'm not destined to go to the Maker's side, what is going to become of me?”

“I'm sorry,” the spirit said, pitifully, “I'm not Faith. I don't know.”

Cole smirked. “You're right, I guess you are the wrong spirit to be asking these questions.”

“I could try finding Faith for you. They're nice spirits.”

Cole laughed again, a soft, weak laugh. “No, that won't be necessary. I'm just thinking out loud, I guess.”

“You're not going to die, Cole. I will save you.”

Cole said nothing, but he didn't have to. Compassion could sense that he didn't believe him anymore. “No, I will! I'm trying! You have to hang on.”

“I'm trying, too,” Cole said with a soft whisper. The wisp floated in front of him, settling in front of his chest, and Cole lazily reached out to touch it. Both spirits could sense his sorrow, but only Compassion could hear his thoughts, unspoken, but clear as day to the mind-reading spirit.

'I just don't want to die alone. Please don't let me die alone.'

“I won't.”

*****

Spirits can always see through the Veil, monitoring the actions of the living and recreating them as best they could in the Fade. The frailty of the Veil here, however, gave Compassion more ability to survey Cole, find out what made him weak and wasting. Every heartbeat, every breath, every thought, every movement; Compassion searched it all, searched his mind and body for answers. Something there must help. Something had answers. Whatever that “something” was, though, he couldn't find it.

Normally he'd be helping several people at once, entering their dreams and soothing their fears, or even pushing against the Veil just enough to plant a suggestion in their heads, words of comfort to ease their suffering. Now his focus was entirely on Cole. It wasn't just because the young man had been his most difficult undertaking yet, but also because he needed to prove himself, to prove that he could still help, that he was still Compassion. The terrible seed of doubt had been planted in the spirit, and he needed to uproot it, to weed it out, if he was to continue to fulfill his purpose.

Such seeds were hurtful to humans, but downright dangerous to spirits. Already the doubt had sprouted ideas and thoughts in the spirit's head that he would never have even fathomed before: that his efforts were in vain; that he was hurting more than he was helping; that he lacked the understanding, the humanity, needed to really help people.

Compassion clasped his hands to his head, trying to drive the thoughts away. 'Forget, forget,' he commanded, but it refused to obey. The purity a spirit needed was denied him. Not until he saved Cole. Only then could he uproot this evil seed once and for all.

“How did you do it?”

Compassion gave a start as he looked over. The spirit had been so wrapped up in his thoughts, that he hadn't noticed Cole enter the Fade.

“What?”

“The pain,” Cole smiled at the spirit, a smile filled with peace and serenity. “The pain is gone. I don't feel hungry anymore. How did you do it?”

Compassion looked at him curiously, before confusion turned to disappointment, and he looked away. “I...didn't.”

“But...” Cole gazed at Compassion with a glazed look. “I haven't eaten anything. I should still be hungry.”

“Your belly got tired of bellowing,” the spirit explained, still looking away. “No one would listen to it, so it stopped.”

Cole was quite for a time, and when he spoke it was with noticeable sadness. “Oh, I see.”

The mage walked up to stand next to the spirit, looking around. Compassion didn't look directly at him, but he could tell the mage was trying to manipulate the Fade. He would lift his hand, waving it, but nothing would happen. He tried again, giving a gentle wave and a look around, but still nothing.

“I can't seem to...” he trailed off, waving his hand again.

Compassion understood, and waved his own hand in the air. The Fade soon blossomed into his beautiful garden.

“Thank you,” Cole whispered, as he walked over to the river. The mage knelt down, carefully removing his leather shoes and dipping his feet in the water.

Compassion looked on. He should be happy for Cole, knowing he felt no pain, but he felt only sad and helpless. He glanced back across the Veil at Cole's sleeping form. His breathing, heartbeat, or any other signs of life were barely detectable.

He knew why Cole felt no pain. He was dying, and Compassion still didn't know how to save him.

Even here, in the Fade, the difference was noticeable. Cole walked as though in a dream, not like the mage he was. He was still more aware, but his thoughts and movements seemed cloudy, blurred. And, as he'd demonstrated, he could no longer manipulate the Fade without help. His soft, peaceful state frightened Compassion. Cole was supposed to be real, but now he seemed no more real than a spirit.

Cole relaxed on the bank of the river for a while, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. He did finally turn around, peering at Compassion with a questioning look. The spirit sensed his desire for company, and walked over to him, sitting down next to him on the bank of the river. Cole smiled at this, kicking his feet in the water.

“You should be happy now.” Cole's voice was soft and airy. “I'm no longer hurting. That's what you do, isn't? Ease the pain.”

“I didn't do this,” Compassion said in a similar whisper. “This wasn't me.”

“Still, I'm not hurting now.”

“But you're fading from the Fade.”

Cole sighed, lowering his head. “I'm sorry. I can't seem to focus like I use to.”

“Yes, you're heavier, the rope is taut, it's harder to pull, push, press. Not enough of you for a you to be you here.”

Cole cracked a weak smile. “And it's getting harder for me to follow the way you speak.”

“I'm going to save you.” Compassion broke the calmness with his desperate cry. “I said I would, and I can. Will. Save you. No dying, no pain, not alone. I will help!”

“You can't save me.” There was no malice in Cole's voice, only acceptance. “And I don't want to cause you any more pain, Compassion. You've done so much for me already.”

“My hurt doesn't matter.”

“Of course it does.” Cole looked at Compassion, struggling to remain centered. “Have you considered, maybe...making yourself forget me?”

Compassion looked at Cole as if he'd been slapped in the face.

“I saw you when I came over. I've hurt you, somehow. I may not fully understand how, but, I know you can make us forget. You wanted to forget earlier. You could always wipe your memory, and mine, and walk away, and we'd never know...”

Compassion shook his head frantically. “No.”

“You wouldn't be hurting right now if you let yourself forget me.”

“To abandon you is not me. Won't retreat. Won't relent. I'm staying until I can save you.”

“You don't have to save me anymore.” Cole tried to give him a reassuring smile. “My pain is gone. Isn't that what you do? What you are? Taking the pain from people. I don't have pain, so there's no reason for you to stay with me.”

“No.” Compassion looked away, still shaking his head, relentless in his refusal.

“There must be others who you could help, who deserve it more than m...”

“I don't want to save you because I'm Compassion.” The spirit pursed his lips in frustration, his body trembling. “I want to save you because you are my friend.”

That stopped the young man. After realizing that Cole wasn't going to speak, Compassion continued. “I help the hurting. I help a lot of people who are hurting, but they don't call me friend. I help them, I leave, and I help another, and they leave. Which is okay, I like to help the hurts. But I helped you, and you called me friend. I've never...I've never had anyone real call me 'friend.'”

“I'm...not really much of a friend, Compassion.” Cole took a deep breath, trying keep his mind on point. “A real friend doesn't hurt his friends just to hurt them.”

“You were angry.” The spirit's voice held such tenderness that it made Cole's heart ache. “I don't understand why you were angry, but I understand you were angry.”

“I'm not worth it.” Cole's voice faltered. “I'm nobody. I'm less than nobody, I'm a mage and a killer and I don't deserve...”

Cole stopped, and gave a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Damn, listen to me. Papa would be furious if he heard me talking like this.” Cole made his voice go rough, imitating his father. ”'Be a man! Die like a man!' That's what he'd say to me. But I guessing 'dying like a man' doesn't include starving in a cold cell while rats eat you alive.”

Compassion turned towards Cole and searched his mind even as the mage withdrew into it. The young man's emotions were raw, and he struggled to keep them in check. The many shields he put up to protect his feelings were crumbling down, leaving him exposed. The anger that frightened the spirit before was gone. The mage simply didn't have the energy or awareness to conjure his usual defenses. Yet, even as he caught a glimpse of the real Cole behind the barriers, he also saw Cole himself crumbling, fading away, vanishing into oblivion.

This might be his last chance, or even his only chance, to help him.

“You killed him so he wouldn't hurt you anymore, but you hang onto the hurt, letting him cut you even when he can't. You don't have to carry him with you anymore.”

Cole let his eyes and mouth fall. “He died hating me. I never wanted him to hate me.”

“He was too proud to tell you the truth. He loved you, but his pride was stronger than his love. It was his pride that hurt you, and it was his pride that killed him.”

Cole closed his eyes. Even in this dream, he could feel the burning wetness behind them. “All that pride, and he couldn't spare any for me.”

“His pride for himself was stronger than his pride for you. He made a monster of it. He chose wrong, but you are not him. He is not who you are. You can let him go.”

The mage let out a long, shuddering breath. “Are you suggesting I should forget?”

Surprisingly, the spirit shook his head, “No. There isn't enough of you to make you forget.”

“But I have no family. I murdered my only family.”

“He would have hurt you, even killed you. And he wouldn't have stopped. He would have hurt others. You stopped him. You saved them.”

“Saved who?” Cole turned slightly towards the spirit, a cynical touch to his voice. “Other mages? The cursed of the Maker?”

“Mages are people, too. They don't deserve to be hurt.”

Cole looked away again, gazing up at the waterfall. Compassion had done a good job making this place a world of serenity and healing. He reached a hand up, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“I wish we had more time.” The waterfall faded to a blur in his eyes. “I think you could, eventually, help me with this if we had more time.”

“Why do we need time?” Compassion didn't even understand the concept of time, let alone why it was necessary.

“I know you're trying, but this is not something you can fix with just a few choice words. This wound is too deep for that.” He smiled weakly. “But it helps to know you're trying. Thank you.”

Sadness mixed with the confusion, but the spirit said nothing. No matter how hard he tried, he simply didn't understand.

*****

Compassion watched Cole as he sat in his cell, awake but barely moving. On occasion he would shift his body, even crawl partly across his cell, as though his body felt the uncontrollable urge to move. This reaction was rare, however. The majority of the time he was barely responsive, even when awake.

The Chantry taught that all spirits wanted to pierce the Veil and join the living, to become real, but this simply wasn't true. Compassion never had any interest in leaving the Fade; he could do more for people here. Not to mention the many complications that came with a spirit joining the living often resulted in people getting hurt. As a spirit of compassion, he was familiar with those hurt by demons that pierced the Veil. He didn't want to be among them.

In order for a spirit like Compassion to join the world of the living, he had to possess a body, whether a person, animal, plant, or even a corpse; something that has, or at least had, life. By clinging to something real, they were better able to reconcile with a world that was very different from the Fade; a world of rigid reality instead of emotions and reflections.

There were whispers in the Fade of spirits who crossed without possessing a body; sometimes accidentally, sometimes deliberately. It would be an easy thing to break through and join the waking world, but the thought frightened Compassion. Breaking through the Veil without possession always ended with the spirit going mad, unable to comprehend and conform to the waking world, and it would twist into a demon, if it wasn't a demon already.

He didn't want to become a monster.

He glanced back through the Veil, at Cole's form sitting against the wall of his dark cell. The mage had fallen asleep again, and Compassion reached into his mind to pull him through, the same way he had done several dozen times now.

It was different this time. Cole was weak, his substance transparent and fragile, and pulling him into a dream was like trying to pick up wet tissue from a pond. Compassion pulled as gently as possible, with great patience and care, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull Cole through.

Panic began to set in, but the spirit pushed it down, reminding himself to remain calm. He wanted to see his friend again, to comfort him and aid his loneliness. It was his sole reason for revealing himself to the mage in the first place. He couldn't ease the mage's suffering if he couldn't bring Cole to him.

He tried again to grasp his friend's soul and pull him to the Fade, but there was no longer enough of him to hang onto. Compassion could barely touch his thoughts through the buzzing and noise of the Veil, and his frustration grew as he tried again and again to reach for his friend.

He pushed and pressed against the Veil, peering down at his friend. He watched as Cole awoke from his slumber, and he sensed the feeling of loneliness from his friend as Cole came to the same conclusion the spirit did. Cole would never again return to the Fade.

This realization didn't stop the spirit's need for fulfillment. He was Compassion, and he needed to ease Cole's suffering; his pain and loneliness. He needed to! Now the Veil held him back, denying him his purpose, and the spirit cried out in frustration and despair.

*****

Cole awoke...or, at least, he thought he was awake. He couldn't tell anymore. Everything seemed to be a dream now.

He had propped himself up in a sitting position, facing the door to his cell. He'd lost the ability to move his body, so he simply sat there. He'd chosen this place in case someone finally came to save him, making sure he could be seen from the tiny window, but that hope was long gone now. He couldn't even see the door anymore.

Were his eyes even open? They didn't have the strength to see through the darkness. He thought he heard the faint sound of rats scurrying about, the soft trickle of water, the vague stench of a filthy cell. But was it real, or just his imagination?

He would never be able to return to the Fade. He was far too weak to make the journey, even with the spirit's help, and it meant he would never see his friend again. He didn't want to die like this, but he had no choice. Compassion had kept him company as long as the spirit could, but his last few moments would be spent completely alone.

He closed his eyes again...or did he? It was the same darkness either way. Not even the light from the cell door penetrated to his gaze. It was all a blur, and soon it would be over. He would either be taken to the Maker's side, or he wouldn't. It didn't matter anymore. He didn't have the energy or will to concern himself with such things. A part of him was grateful that this long, agonizing state would soon be over. He'd be free from this dark, lonely cell.

A painful flash of light suddenly interrupted his thoughts and pierced his closed eye-lids, and he squeezed them tighter, trying to block it out. He gave a soft moan, as though being woken from a deep slumber. He tried to blink away the discomfort, to get a look at what had disturbed him.

The light resembled ribbons of green, floating and shifting in the air, without form or consistency. He opened his eyes further, trying to make out this strange site. Was he seeing things? Was he going mad? As he watched, it continued to grow steadily bigger. Brighter? His eyes were no longer accustomed to seeing light, and he closed them instinctively, but the green glow still penetrated his lids.

He couldn't restrain his curiosity for long, and he opened them again. Hallucination or not, he needed to see what it was. The light was larger still, and he could see something else beyond it. Movement? There was something there. Part of his mind told him he should be afraid, but he wasn't.

It was then he noticed a pair of eyes staring back at him from the other side of the light. A pair of familiar, wide, bright blue eyes; his eyes? A reflection? Some sort of mirror?

The light grew brighter and larger, and he snapped his eyes shut again, no longer able to open them, but he could tell the light was continuing to grow, and something was pushing through. He felt something touch his hand, like a soft energy that was trying to envelope it. A touch that reminded him of a spirit.

He opened his eyes again in time to see a form slip through the light, a light that then vanished behind it. The room itself was not cast into darkness, however, as the form that came through seem to cast its own, softer glow. It was much easier on the eyes, and Cole saw before him a familiar form. It was only confirmed for him when the spirit looked up at him, wide, frightened eyes meeting drooping, weak eyes

Compassion already had a hand on his, and he closed his fingers around Cole's, but it was no longer the hand of a spirit. Cole felt the touch of a human hand; a real hand. He didn't understand it; it wasn't possible, but it didn't matter. It had been so long since he'd felt human touch. At that moment, it was the most wonderful feeling of his entire life.

The spirit, now flesh and blood, picked up Cole's hand. His touch was warm, almost hot against the mage's cold, lifeless fingers. Compassion brought his other hand up, clasping Cole's hand between his own.

“Cole?” Compassion spoke with a hoarse voice that had never been used. The spirit-turned-human searched his gaze, his expression full of concern and hope.

Cole wasn't sure he had the energy to smile physically, but he felt a smile in his soul none the less. He wasn't alone; his best friend was with him.

He parted his lips, saying the last words he would ever speak. “Thank you.”

Comforted, for the last time, he slipped into darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

-“How does Compassion become such a deadly killer?”  
-“Templars.”  
\- Party Banter in DA:I

 

The cell was plunged into darkness and Compassion had to take a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light. He held Cole's single, frail hand in his own two hands, and could only watch as Cole closed his eyes, let his head fall to the side, and was still.

“Cole?” His voice was more urgent the second time, and he anxiously searched his mind. Cole didn't answer, but the spirit sensed a spark of thought, of emotion, dim but real. He wasn't dead, not yet, but it was only a matter of time now. He would never wake up again. Compassion could not save him.

He looked peaceful sitting there, his back against the wall, and his head leaning to one side. His eyes and cheeks were sunken in, but he was taking soft, shallow breaths. He didn't know how much longer he had, but the spirit would be there for him.

Compassion reached up, intending to brush a thin strand of blond hair from Cole's face. As his fingertips touched however, he recoiled from it. It didn't feel right. Not Cole, but him; his hand. A sensation he'd never felt before that coursed through his fingers.

It was only now that he realized this same sensation was coming from his hands as it held Cole's. He reflexively let go, his mind struggling to comprehend this new sensation, and he stood up with the intent of retreating.

It had been a mistake. An unseen force pulled him, snagging his unprepared body and causing him to stumble backwards. He fell and banged his head on the hard stone floor.

As a spirit of Compassion, he had the ability to feel the pain of others so he might heal them, and this included physical pains. He, however, had never felt actual pain himself. He let out a loud, sharp cry, grabbing his head and curling up on the floor with a whimper. His eyes, shut tight, became wet – yet another sensation he'd never felt before – and he reached up with one hand to wipe them away.

He'd become so focused on Cole that he hadn't noticed his surroundings, and the environment suddenly bore down on him in an oppressive wave. The stench of the cell made his stomach turn, the sounds of fleeing rats and water made his head hurt, and the cold, painfully-rough floor made him shiver uncontrollably. Panic began to set in, and he noticed his breathing -am I breathing?- was increasing rapidly.

He carefully tried to stand, but he only managed to get on one knee. It was like his body was heavy, a force pulling him to the ground even as he tried to lift himself. He twisted around, trying again to stand, but only stumbled backwards into the wall of the cell. He prevented himself from hitting his head this time, but he still felt the air knocked out of him, and he grunted, coughing as his lungs forced him to breathe.

He was a spirit, he didn't need to breathe, but the sensation of losing breath was still agonizing. He took several more gulps of air, trying his best to center himself. It helped, and he slowly gathered his bearings again.

He turned towards the cold, stone wall, pressing his hands against it and trying desperately to push his way through. The wall was wet, slimy, and refused to move.

“Let me through,” he begged the rock in a hoarse voice that didn't sound like his own. “Please.” It wouldn't budge; it wouldn't listen. He tried again, pushing with all his might, pleading with the wall to obey, but it defied him.

He tried standing up again, using the wall to support his untrained legs. It helped greatly, and he found himself walking, sliding against the stone. The room was so dark, he could barely see anything, but he noticed the door. He turned the corner towards it, grasping the handle, the way he'd seen Cole do in the Fade, and tried to open it. The handle jiggled, making it just slightly more cooperative than the wall, but it refused to open for him. He tried banging his hand on the door as he'd seen some people do, but it only caused a shocking pain that radiated all the way up his arm, and he gasped, falling to the ground and cradling his arm.

If he'd had anything in his stomach, he would have vomited right then and there. He could hear what he assumed was his heart pounding in his chest and ears, making his head hurt even more. Not just his head, everything hurt. He was trapped in a static horror, and it was torturing him.

He felt a sick darkness well up from somewhere deep inside him, a darkness that was filled with fear and despair, threatening to completely overwhelm him and turn him into something else. He took deep breaths again, trying to calm himself, and doing his best to ignore the horrible stench that came with every gulp of air. It was a technique he encouraged others to use – the people he helped – when they needed to calm themselves, though he'd never dreamed he'd need it for himself. With each subsequent breath, the darkness subsided, falling back into the depths it came from, and the pain and panic he felt diminished, becoming a dull ache. He dared to open his eyes again, surveying his surroundings.

As his mind calmed and his panic subsided, he remembered where he was. He'd seen this dark cell many times before, as he'd studied it very carefully from the Fade. He was close enough now that he could hear the walls sing; a sad, lonely, and sickening song. He covered his ears instinctively, trying to block out the horrible sound. It sang whispered words of hopelessness and horrors to him, and he didn't want to listen. He knew why the walls sang this song; Compassion, like Cole, was now trapped here. There was no way out, except to go back to the Fade.

But he couldn't go back, not yet.

He crawled on his hands and knees over to where Cole lay, sitting himself beside his old friend. He focused again on the young man's mind, reaffirming that he was barely alive, and he reached out to touch Cole's hand, tentatively at first. He was a little more accustomed now to these new, strange sensations, and realizing this touch didn't hurt, he intertwined his fingers in Cole's again.

The reaction he sensed from the mage's mind helped reassure the spirit. Even in this state, even without consciousness, Cole could feel the touch, and it calmed him. Compassion gently squeezed his hand, not even sure why he was doing it, and laid his head back against the stone wall, gazing into the face of his dying friend. If he could bring him this small amount of comfort as it all ended, he would. He could do that much.

Strangely, holding Cole's hand gave him some small amount of comfort as well.

*****

Cole was dead.

Spirits had no concept of time, and Compassion had no way of knowing how long he'd sat there, holding the mage's hand, until there was no longer any trace of life from him. He had wept at that moment, wetness leaking from his eyes and nose. He'd wiped the tears away with his sleeve, but he couldn't brush away the rough numbness it left on his sensitive skin.

Now he just sat there, still holding Cole's dead hand, letting the sorrow overtake him.

He noticed Cole's skin growing colder, but he still held on. He couldn't bring himself to let go. The new sensation of touch was alien to him, but strangely comforting. The only source of comfort he found in this dark, lonely cell.

Compassion lifted his knees up, hugging his free arm around them as he buried his head. He contemplated returning to the Fade, making himself forget all of this; make himself the way he was before Cole died. He could wash himself clean, make himself pure, become Compassion again, helping those who hurt and going on as though nothing happened.

But why? Even with all of his effort and focus, he had failed him; failed to save his friend. Cole had been right; he didn't know enough about being human to help. What good was being a spirit of compassion if he couldn't help? But he was Compassion. He wasn't anything else. What else could he be?

A loud noise in the distance woke him from his musings, and he lifted his head to listen. The cell had been so deathly quiet until now. Not even the rats and roaches had bothered them, and Compassion surmised his mere presence was enough to frighten them away. This noise was not caused by any rodents or insects; there were shouting voices behind them, and the sound of banging doors and footsteps.

Someone was coming.

If he'd heard these noises before Cole had died, he would have been elated. Now the voices just frightened him. Who were they? What were they going to do to him when they saw him? He had no way of knowing what he looked like but he knew that when spirits attempted to form a body on their own, it was always monstrous and frightening to people. Would they try to kill him? He had nowhere to run if they did.

He finally released Cole's hand, crawling into a far, dark corner to hide. It was a pointless gesture; there was nothing in the cell that could truly hide him. Could he fight them? He may not have a choice.

“...Could have found her if you let us stay out longer.” The voice was clearly female, gravelly from age or use, gruff and very annoyed.

A second, younger man's voice spoke up. “We've been away too long. The boy might be dead.”

“So? Mages die here all the time. You get used to it.”

The footsteps were coming closer, and he could see a light growing brighter through the cell window. Compassion pushed himself further against the corner, trying his best to pass through it and hide within it. As before, the wall refused him passage and the safety of its cover.

The light shined directly into the cell, illuminating it so brightly that Compassion shielded his eyes from the pain of the glare. Please, don't see me!

“He's not moving.” The younger male voice was hushed, fearful.

“Go on in and have a look.” A different voice spoke this time from further beyond the cell; a deeper, raspy man's voice.

Compassion heard the jingle of keys and a clicking sound before the handle moved down and the door swung outward. Even more light flooded the room. It was still dim, but it was more light than this cell had seen in who-knows how long.

A young man, a templar, entered the cell, holding an enchanted lantern in front of him. He had the standard issue armor, a solid, silver breastplate with the symbol of a flaming sword on the front. His hair was a dark brown, and he had a thick mustache to match.

The light from his lantern illuminated the cell, leaving the spirit completely exposed. There was no way the young man wouldn't see him now.

Yet, he didn't. He didn't even glance his way.

He slowly approached Cole's body, letting the lantern lead the way. As he neared, he grunted in disgust, but reached his hand out, tentatively. He shoved an arm against Cole's shoulder, causing the body to shift slightly, but he didn't respond. The templar lifted the lantern up, looking closer at the body.

He reached out a hand, grasping Cole by the chin and lifting his head up. Stop it! Compassion thought to himself, becoming angry. Don't touch him! Get away! He wanted to rush over there and shove the templar away, attack him for daring to rough up his friend, but he was too terrified to move. He could only protest in vain while continuing to push himself into the corner.

The young templar dropped Cole's head, letting it fall to the side and stood up quickly. “Shit!” he cried out of fear and anger, leaving the cell so quickly he almost stumbled into the templar woman. “He's dead.”

She rolled her eyes in disappointment. “So we came all this way for nothing.”

The younger templar frantically gestured towards the body. “The Knight-Commander is going to have our heads for this!” His voice had grown high-pitched, though whether from fear, sorrow, or both it was hard to say.

“Don't worry,” she soothed, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We'll erase his records. The Commander will never know he was here.”

She patted him on the shoulder and turned away. “Knight-Corporal, go down to the incinerator and get it running. I'll go upstairs and find his records and personal effects and bring them down here. You,” she turned back to the younger templar, “Get the body and bring it down to the incinerator.”

Compassion could see the horrified expression on the young templar, “W...what? Why do I have to handle the corpse?”

“Because you're the new guy,” she said with a laugh. He could hear the other templar give a boisterous laugh from beyond the cell, their mirthful echoes bouncing against the walls like the fists of a starving child.

The other templars departed in separate directions. The remaining one stood there for a few moments, staring at the body, before also leaving the cell.

Compassion was hopeful that he'd given up and just left, but such hope was short lived. The templar came back, carrying an old, filthy blanket in his hands. He set the lantern down at the entrance and unfurled the bedding, laying it to rest on the ground just in front of Cole.

“This is not what I signed up for when I joined.” The templar's voice was barely a mumble, but it carried in the empty cell clearly. He walked around the blanket towards Cole, hesitating as he stared at the body in disgust, before pushing him over, letting him fall to the floor.

Compassion could only stare in helpless horror, recoiling as the body fell towards him, Cole's soft blond hair slowly settling onto the concrete floor and the hand the spirit had been holding earlier laid out before him, as though reaching out for help. The templar braced himself, before rolling Cole's body onto the blanket. Stepping forward, he then proceeded to role him up like an old rug.

Stop! He tried to stand, tried to stop the templar, but he only succeeded in kicking a stone across the room. This startled the young man, and he looked up abruptly for the source of the noise. Compassion retreated back into the corner again, staring wide eyed at him.

The templar glanced around the cell with a confused expression. His eyes swept over Compassion, but they passed over him like he wasn't there. After a few moments, the man sighed, shaking his head, and proceeded to wrap up the body.

Cole could barely be seen inside the blanket. The only thing that indicated his presence there was a hand poking out one end. The templar gave of a sickly groan, and he clutched his stomach in an obvious attempt to keep from retching. He grabbed the opposite end of the blanket, twisting it in his hands to get a better grip, and began dragging the bundle, body and all, out of the cell, and down the hall. He stopped only long enough to slam the cell door shut behind him.

Compassion wasn't sure how long he sat there. The lantern still sat on the floor nearby, illuminating the cell in an eerie light, but it only further emphasized that the cell was now empty. The spirit was alone.

He stood up, slowly but deliberately. It can't end like this. Not like this! He walked along the wall of the cell, keeping one hand there to steady himself as he approached the door. He was terrified he might still be trapped in here, but when he grasped the door handle and pushed it down, the door swung open with a loud and ominous creak.

He looked down the hall of the dungeon. There were rows upon rows of cells, most of which looked like they hadn't been used since the First Blight. He heard the scraping sounds coming from the left, and headed in that direction, deeper into the cell block.

He walked swiftly, his hand still pressing against the walls, though he was now certain he could walk without the support. It didn't take him long to catch up to the templar and Cole around a bend in the hallway. He knew now that he was invisible, but he still instinctively ducked back around the corner, watching them from cover. The templar was focused on his task as he dragged the body deeper and deeper into the keep.

He kept pace, always keeping the templar and his bundle in sight. He didn't know what he could do to stop him, but there had to be something. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself when the time came. For now, he just needed to make sure he didn't lose Cole.

There was a bright, burning light up ahead. The templar continued down the hall, dragging his haul behind him, with the spirit following unnoticed at a distance. They're journey lead them into a vast chamber, far more open and spacious than anything else in this pit. They entered from a stone-walled balcony, a brick staircase leading down into the large room. A stream of water from behind a wall flowed into an over-sized trough on the far side of the room. The place smelled of soot, fire, and pain.

It was clear why when Compassion gazed towards the center of the room. A large, scorched brick furnace sat prominently in the center, the door to it wide open and a fire already blazing inside, like a massive fire-breathing dragon ready to consume its prey. One of the templars was there, coaxing and nurturing the flame inside.

The man was older than the templar that had Cole, but not by much. He had short, salt and pepper hair and a full beard to match. He was larger than the younger templar, and far more intimidating. He also looked dreadfully cheerful.

The young templar dragged Cole's wrapped body over to the furnace, but the older templar stopped him. “Hold up, it's not quite ready yet. Just leave it there for now.”

Compassion waited at the top of the balcony, looking over, not daring to come near. Even from up here, he could feel the heat from the furnace, an uncomfortable heat that warned him to stay away. He gazed around the room, trying to see if there was something he could use to stop this, but nothing he saw seemed useful. The tools used to stoke the fire were all by the templars, and entering the light of the wide open space frightened him too much to go near.

He heard the older templar laugh. “This sure beats throwing stray cats in a river, doesn't it.”

“You're sick,” The younger templar berated. “This isn't funny.”

“Settle down, tenderfoot,” he gave him a toothy grin, which made him look even more menacing. “This isn't the first time this has happened.”

The younger templar's face lost all color. “How can you be so casual about this? This is murder! This boy was our charge, and we killed him.”

The older templar snorted. “Oh come on, did you really expect that being a templar would be all about shiny parades, heroic stories, and swooning ladies?” He walked over to the blanket, throwing back the cover just enough to show Cole's emaciated face to his startled and horrified comrade. “This is what being a templar is about; dealing with demons, abominations, and murderous apostates, and then cleaning up the shit they leave behind. Like this guy.” He pointed down at Cole for emphasis. “You and I both saw the body at the farm, and he was washing blood off of his clothes. This piece of filth was a murderer first, and there's no reason to feel any remorse for him.

“What we do isn't fun unless you make it fun. I suggest you learn how, or you won't last here.”

He covered the body again, giving a menacing grin as he went back to stoking the fire. Compassion was shivering with barely contained rage. His friend was not “filth,” he was Cole. He wanted to go down there and punish them, hit them, kill them. They didn't deserve the same life they took from his friend. Cole was dead, and he wanted his killers dead, too.

Compassion was startled out of his angry musings by loud footsteps behind him. He crouched down against the balcony, knowing he was in plain sight, but hoping he still wouldn't be seen. He had an idea of who it was and, sure enough, the senior templar came down, holding a wooden crate full of papers in her hands.

It was the first good look the spirit got of her. She had been attractive once, but harsh work in the outdoors had leathered and wrinkled her face. Her hair was a light-brown, thin and stringy, crudely tied back in a ponytail. She stopped at the top of the steps, looking down at the other templars. She didn't even glance at the spirit, despite being just a few feet away.

“Lieutenant, can you come down here and help us with this?”

She placed the crate down on the ground and went to her comrades, who appeared to be struggling with the furnace. Compassion watched her leave before his gaze fell back to the crate she'd set on the ground. He could see that it contained a few pieces of parchment, Cole's records from upstairs no doubt, but there was something else inside as well.

The spirit inched closer, trying to get a better look. Inside the crate, sitting on top of all the parchment, was Cole's one and only possession; an ornate dagger in a leather sheath with a brass handle shaped like a dragon.

It was the same dagger that Compassion saw in Cole's memories, and had recreated in the Fade, except this one was real. It had seen better days, covered in both dirt and dried blood, but it was his mother's dagger, no doubt.

Compassion reached into the crate, slowly and carefully grasping the dagger and pulling it out while keeping one eye on the templars below. Once the dagger was safely in his grasp, he scurried away, hugging the weapon to his chest.

It didn't take long for the Knight-Lieutenant to come back up the stairs to grab the crate, but as soon as she looked inside, she stopped.

“Hey, what happened to the da...”

“Forget.”

Compassion made a quick gesture with his hand, and the memory left her, escaping to the Fade in a whiff of black smoke. She didn't notice the gesture or spirit; she just looked down at the crate in blank confusion.

“What happened to what?” The older templar called out.

She only shook her head, as if to clear it. “Never mind.” She grabbed the crate and carried it down to the furnace.

The crate landed inside the now blazing furnace with the loud crackle of crushed charcoal and a shower of sparks. The incinerator now burned with a heat that hurt Compassion, but he dared not move from his spot. This was his last chance to save Cole. He had a weapon now. All he had to do was run down there and...

“Help me out,” Knight-Corporal gestured towards the new templar, grabbing one end of the blanket and waiting as his associate to grabbed the other. With a quick swing, and a strong heave, they hurled the body into the furnace.

*****

Compassion didn't even flinch when the furnace's door was shut with a loud, echoing clang. The templars sealed it shut, the flames still burning fiercely within. They were all sweating from being so close to the flames, but the older templars were still in good spirits, the younger one trailing just behind them.

“Maybe now we can go back to finding our missing apostate,” the woman chimed in. “Remember, tenderfoot, if she ends up as an abomination and wipes out a village, it's on you.”

Corporal snorted cynically. “The old man could have been lying, you know. She may not exist.”

“It doesn't matter. We need to keep looking.”

The spirit barely acknowledged them, even as they passed right by him; even as their voices became a distant echo, and then were too far to hear. He only stared at the furnace, still clutching the dagger to his chest.

Murdering Cole was bad enough, but his killers couldn't leave it at that. They had to also wipe him from existence. The only evidence of his presence that still remained was the dagger Compassion now held. It was all that was left.

He'd failed Cole. Again. The spirit stood, slowly climbing down the steps towards the furnace. He was hoping to come closer to the flames, to Cole's grave, but the heat was too much for his sensitive nerves. He could only stare at the monstrous stove as it consumed its feast, unfeeling and uncaring.

He was done here. He could try and return to the Fade again, but he had no heart for it. He remembered choosing to become Compassion when he'd matured as a spirit, because he liked helping people. He could sense their pain and make it go away, make it better. There was so much pain in the waking world, and he dedicated himself to making it just a little brighter, a little better for everyone. It was the whole reason for his existence

There was only darkness now. He'd worked harder on helping Cole than anyone he'd ever assisted, and this was the result. A burning flame in a furnace, and his murderers walking away gleefully.

And he had done nothing.

He felt wetness in his eyes again, making his vision go blurry, and he quickly wiped it away. He looked down at the dragon-head dagger clutched tightly in his fingers, but he could barely see it. The blurriness in his eyes wouldn't go away, no matter how many times he tried to wipe them, and a tightness in his chest and gut soon followed.

He fell to his knees, bringing both hands, with the dagger, to his face. He didn't fight it this time, simply allowing the wetness to flow, his body shaking and convulsing as he cried. He allowed despair to take him.

The darkness he felt before emerged again, welling up from a deep part of his being and threatening to consume him. It was a cold darkness that pushed the heat away, making it deceptively comforting. It wasn't long, however, before the cold began to hurt him as well, his body shivering and his teeth aching.

No! It wasn't right; it wasn't him. He clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp, the sheath of the dagger pressed painfully against his forehead, as he fought back the cold dark. It had come from somewhere inside his soul, so his only option was to push it back, force it down, exile it back where it came from. It was hard, the darkness didn't want to leave. But he prevailed, pushing the cold away until all he could feel was the unbearable heat from the furnace.

He tried to focus on something else, something to get his mind off of his despair. He brought the dagger closer to his blurry eyes, and noticed again that it was dirty. He tried to will the dirt and blood off of the dagger, only to be reminded that such trivial tricks only worked in the Fade. How did people in the waking world clean things? With water, maybe?

There was a large trough on the other side of the room, and he shuffled over to it. He removed the dagger from its sheath as he approached, the sound of the running water soon drowning out the roar of the fire. It reminded him of the river in the Fade, the one Cole helped him create, and it filled him with both comfort and renewed sorrow all at once. It was a confusing feeling, one he wished would just go away.

He reached the trough and looked inside, and stopped. He saw his own reflection in the water, the first time he saw what he had created. He hadn't intended to create a body for himself, he knew what happened when spirits tried. He had planned on simply coming through as a spirit, saving Cole, then returning to the Fade. The body he had was an accident, and he now expected to see a horrible creature, a gruesome thing that frightened the people of the waking world. Spirits could never get the human form right, and he didn't expect to be any different.

When he looked into the water, however, he didn't see a monster. He saw Cole.

He looked on at his rippling reflection, and tentatively reached a hand up to touch his face. He traced the contours of his, chin, nose, and lips, bringing his hand up to touch the strands of ash-blond hair that he hadn't even noticed falling over his blue eyes.

He still couldn't believe what he was seeing. His hands wandered down to his neck, chest, and arms. It wasn't just his body that was an exact duplicate; he even had an exact copy of Cole's worn, patchwork leathers and clothing. Did he somehow create an exact copy when he accidentally created a body? If so, he couldn't recall when or how he did it.

He looked back over at the furnace, Cole's grave, its flames still burning brightly. A new hope swelled inside his chest and he smiled as he glanced down again, hugging his body.

“I can still save Cole!”

He put the dagger back in its sheath, no longer caring how dirty it was, and strapped the sheath to his waste. It was his now, the dagger that belonged to his mother, that she buried in the garden to keep his father from selling it. The dagger that he used to kill his father, so he wouldn't hurt anyone ever again. The dagger that was his again. Cole's.

He couldn't be Compassion anymore. That life was behind him. He had failed as a spirit, but he could move on now as a person, a human being. He had a new purpose now. He had Cole's body, his voice, even some of his memories. That's all you needed to be human, right?

There was just one last thing he had to do.

In order to become Cole, he had to forgo his old life; he had to say goodbye to Compassion; to the Fade, to being a spirit. He had to become real.

With one hand still clinging to the dagger, he raised his opposite hand to his head.

“Forget!”


End file.
